Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 255: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

206 Pickwick Abroad. francs at the Palais-Royal at one time—was once suspected of forgery, but hushed up the matter—is now supposed to be entirely ruined.” ‘SA pretty character !’’ cried I, as I returned my tablets—those tablets on which was written the description of many an individual— to my pocket. I then whispered a few but impressive words of neces- sary caution in the ears of the gaming-house-keeper, and withdrew to proceed one step farther in the execution of my duty and the orders of the secre de Limeul. | I issued from the Palais-Royal into the Rue de Richelieu, thence to the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs, and hastened to the abode of the afflicted Madame D’Arly. After some delay, I was ushered into her resence ; but when my eyes first fell upon her countenance, I was stupi- ed, as it were, at the sight of her extraordinary beauty. She had risen to receive me, and her graceful attitude developed her lovely figure to advantage. She was tall and admirably formed; her light flaxen hair fell upon a neck and shoulders of dazzling whiteness, and partly concealed a bosom that heaved against the pressure of a corset adapted to display her voluptuous form. She rather resembled the fine and full-grown women of England, than the more delicate daughters of France. My confusion was only momentary—it was, however, noticed and acknowledged by the blush that mounted on her cheek.—and then I was requested to explain the motives of my visit. “TI believe I have the honour of addressing Madame D’Arly ?” The reply was of course in the affirmative. “The amiable spouse of M. D’Arly ?” ‘‘The same—” said the lady, hastily, and somewhat alarmed ; ‘‘but, pray, what mean these queries ?”’ ‘‘T am afraid, Madam,” said I, “‘ that M. D’Arly has lately been un- fortunate in—in—”’ ‘In what?” cried the beautiful Emilie, somewhat impatiently. “¢ iz his speculations,” said I, desirous of sparing the use of harsh words. “‘ At the gaming-table! you would add,” observed Madame D’Arly with a bitter smile, and a look that expressed the acutest mental agony. ‘ And he is likely to continue a loser, Madam,” I exclaimed, with considerable emphasis. “Sir,” said the lady, rising, “ your observations are most singular —your conversation alarms me. Either impertinent curiosity, or a friendly motive, has sent you hither. Before we discourse more inti- mately on these matters—for such appears your aim—allow me to be acquainted with your name.”’ “My name is Dumont, at your service,” was my reply; “‘ and J am a well-wisher to D’Arly, without having the honour of his acquaint- ance. But to be brief,—let him not visit the Palais-Royal this even- ing; but desire him to call upon me, to-morrow morning, at my lodgings in the Faubourg Saint Antoine; and he may not repent his visit. This is the card of my address.” I rose to depart,—but my feet remained rooted to the spot. Emilie’s cheeks were white as marble. ‘Fear nothing, dear Madam,” I cried: ‘“ the evil may still be remedied. Your husband stands on the verge of a dangerous precipice —his evil genius is hastening him towards the abyss—and his resolu- COL €) NOOO KS (c@