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Updated: June 8, 2025
The handsome Comte de Vermandois, barely seventeen years old, had won the heart of a fair lady, of about his own age, who expressed her passion for him with an energy, a delicacy, and a talent far beyond all that we admire in books. I knew her; the King loved her. Her husband, a most distinguished field-officer, cherished her and believed her to be faithful.
When his field-officer approaches, anticipating some important charge of duty, sword and revolver in hand, the ghastly face of Valois alarms him. "Colonel!" he cries. Valois motions him to be seated. "Peyton," begins Valois, brokenly, "I am struck to the heart." He is ashy pale. His head falls on his friend's bosom. "My wife!" He needs not finish. The open letters tell the story. It is death news.
The handsome Comte de Vermandois, barely seventeen years old, had won the heart of a fair lady, of about his own age, who expressed her passion for him with an energy, a delicacy, and a talent far beyond all that we admire in books. I knew her; the King loved her. Her husband, a most distinguished field-officer, cherished her and believed her to be faithful.
That a prospective Brigadier-General should find his sole relief from solitude in the fugitive companionship of a Japanese acrobat seemed to me pathetic. Meanwhile there he was at Mansfield Court, lean and unlovely, but, as I divined, lovable in his unaffected simplicity, the very model of a British field-officer. At dinner on Saturday evening, he had sat between his hostess and Lady Auriol Dayne.
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