Before a month it is a fact that the wretched haberdashers in the city exhibited the blue stocks, called "Heiress-killers, very chaste, two-and-six:" long before that, the monde had rushed to Madame Crinoline's, or sent couriers to Madame Marabou, at Paris, so as to have copies of her dresses; but, as the Mantuan bard observes, "Non cuivis contigit,"-- every foot cannot accommodate itself to the chaussure of Cinderella.
With all this splendor, this worship, this beauty; with these cheers following her, and these crowds at her feet, was Amethyst happy?
Ah, no! It is not under the necklace the most brilliant that Briggs and Rumble can supply, it is not in Lynch's best cushioned chariot that the heart is most at ease.

"Que je me ruinerai," says Fronsac in a letter to Bossuet, "si je savais ou acheter le bonheur!" With all her riches, with all her splendor, Amethyst was wretched--wretched, because lonely; wretched, because her loving heart had nothing to cling to.

Her splendid mansion was a convent; no male person even entered it, except Franklin Fox, (who counted for nothing,) and the duchess's family, her kinsman old Lord Humpington, his friend old Sir John Fogey, and her cousin, the odious, odious Borodino.
The Prince de Borodino declared openly that Amethyst was engaged to him.

Crible de dettes, it is no wonder that he should choose such an opportunity to refaire sa fortune.

He gave out that he would kill any man who should cast an eye on the heiress, and the monster kept his word.