A charming retreat, one of a luxurious suite of apartments in the Boulevard Malesherbes, the abode, evidently, of a woman both young and of elegant tastes. One glance round the room sufficed to establish the innate refinement of its owner—the couch covered with pearl-grey brocaded satin, the timepiece of Dresden china, the Venetian mirror, the crayons bearing the signature of Latour, the tasteful what-nots filled with miniature figures, the Smyrna carpet, the cushions adorned with antique lace, and the diminutive chairs, a modern creation, which the Parisians have invented to enable them, on the first approach of frost, to creep as closely as possible to the genial warmth of a winter fire—ev…
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