s thought they recognized in her a certain Mélanie Favrot, who formerly kept an establishment of "gloves and perfumery;" but these merchants were mistaken.
Again, an officer in the Hussars insisted that he had seen her eight years before at Orleans. He also was mistaken. And we all know that resemblances are often impertinences.
Madame de Barancy had however travelled much, and made no concealment of the fact, but an absolute sorcerer would have been needed to evolve any facts from the contradictory accounts she gave of her origin and her life. One day Ida was born in the colonies, spoke of her mother, a charming créole, of her plantation and her negroes. Another time she had passed her childhood in a great chateau on the Loire. She seemed utterly indifferent as to the manner in which her hearers would piece together these dislocated bits of her existence.
As may be imagined, in these fantastic recitals, vanity reigned triumphant, the vanity of a chattering paroquet. Bank an