His first business was to seek Montraville, and endeavour to convince him that what had happened would ultimately tend to his happiness: he found him in his apartment, solitary, pensive, and wrapped in disagreeable reflexions.
"Why how now, whining, pining lover ?" said he, clapping him on the shoulder.

Montraville started; a momentary flush of resentment crossed his cheek, but instantly gave place to a death-like paleness, occasioned by painful remembrance remembrance awakened by that monitor, whom, though we may in vain endeavour, we can never entirely silence.
"Belcour," said he, "you have injured me in a tender point." "Prithee, Jack," replied Belcour, "do not make a serious matter of it: how could I refuse the girl's advances?
and thank heaven she is not your wife." "True," said Montraville; "but she was innocent when I first knew her.
It was I seduced her, Belcour.

Had it not been for me, she had still been virtuous and happy in the affection and protection of her family." "Pshaw," replied Belcour, laughing, "if you had not taken advantage of her easy nature, some other would, and where is the difference, pray ?" "I wish I had never seen her," cried he passionately, and starting from his seat.

"Oh that cursed French woman," added he with vehemence, "had it not been for her, I might have been happy--" He paused.
"With Julia Franklin," said Belcour.

The name, like a sudden spark of electric fire, seemed for a moment to suspend his faculties--for a moment he was transfixed; but recovering, he caught Belcour's hand, and cried--"Stop! stop! I beseech you, name not the lovely Julia and the wretched Montraville in the same breath.