He went to Paris, that capital which he had
shunned since the death of Mary Goodwin, but whither he returned
eagerly now, thirsting for riot and excitement--any opiate by which he
might lull to rest the bitter memories of the past month.
He was familiar with the wildest haunts of that city of dissipation,
and he was speedily engulphed in the vortex of vice and folly. If he
had been a rich man, this life might have gone on for ever; but without
money a man counts for very little in such a circle as that wherein
Reginald alone could find delight, and to the inhabitants of that
region five hundred a year would seem a kind of pauperism.
Sir Reginald contrived to keep the actual amount of his income a secret
locked in his own breast. His acquaintances and associates knew that he
was not rich; but they knew no more.
At the French opera-house he saw Paulina Durski for the first time. She
was seated in one of the smaller boxes, dressed in pure white, with
white camellias in her hair. Her faithful companion, Matilda Brewer,
was seated in the shadow of the curtains, and formed a foil for the
beautiful Austrian.
Reginald Eversleigh entered the house with a dissipated and fashionable
young Parisian--a man who, like his companion, had wasted youth,
character, and fortune in the tainted atmosphere of disreputable haunts
and midnight assemblies.
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