The first tableaux of the second group represented Circe with the companions of Ulysses changed into swine. The marvellous Lady Rupper was to represent Circe. She entered dramatically, half nude, her tunic open to her waist, caught at intervals by diamond clasps, her peplum held in place by a garland of bay leaves. She was very beautiful. Her husband, a wealthy American, laughed at sight of her, a coarse laugh, the laugh of all Germans, even when Americanized.

The second picture represented Judith and Holofernes. The beautiful brunette, the Marquise de Chaussey, in a daring costume designed by Maurice, held in her hand a magnificent scimitar, the property of Morlay-La-Branche. She was to pose, raising the curtain, as in the picture of Regnault.

The third picture was the deliverance of Andromeda. When Esperance appeared, so slender, so fragile, her long hair waving in floods of pale gold almost to the floor, a murmur of almost sacred admiration rang through the hall. Lady Rupper approached her, and taking the child's hair in her hands, cried out, "Oh! my dear, it is more beautiful than the American gold."

The Duke came up to Esperance.

"I should have preferred enchaining you to delivering you, Mademoiselle."

"I can speak now in the person of Andromeda and thank you for that deliverance ... which you promised," she answered with a little smile.

She had spoken so low that only the Duke could hear the ending which he alone understood. He had promised to deliver her from his love, but at that instant he revolted against the thought and the admonition.

"Why not?" he muttered to himself. "She must be happier with me than with that insufferable bore! I will keep my word until she herself absolves me from it."

They had to arrange her pose against the rock. Maurice and Albert helped her, while the Duke watched from a distance, and criticized the effect. All at once he cried out, "That is perfect. Don't move. Now the mechanician must mark the place to set the fetters for the hands and feet."

Maurice stepped back by the Duke to judge of the effect.

"It is excellent," he said, looking only, thinking only as an artist. "That child has a beauty of proportion, a dazzling grace, and the most lovely face imaginable."

As the Duke did not speak, Maurice looked at him. He was standing upright, leaning against a table, pale as death.

"Are you ill?" asked Maurice.

"No ... no...."

He passed his hand across his forehead and said in an unnatural voice, "Will you see to it please, that they do not leave her suspended that way too long? Tell Albert to raise her head, it seems to me that she is going to faint."

He started forward.

"I will go," said Maurice, stopping him.

When the machinist finished screwing the rings in the rock Maurice asked whether it would not be better to repeat this tableaux at once. The Duke approved. The terrifying dragon was properly arranged on the ground—the wonderful dragon which was the design of a renowned sculptor and perfectly executed by Gerard in papier mache. Perseus (the Duke) with one foot on the head of the vanquished monster, bent towards Andromeda. The breath of her half-opened mouth was hot on his lips, and he could hear the wild beating of her little heart. He felt an infinite tenderness steal over him, and when a tear trembled on the young girl's eyelashes he forgot everything, wiped the tear away tenderly with the end of his finger and kissed it lovingly. Happily the turning stage was almost out of sight and nobody except Genevieve had caught sight of the incident.

Esperance breathed, "God, my God!"

The Duke raised the poor child, and said to her very low, "I love you, Esperance."

She murmured, "You must not ... you must not."

While he was loosing her chains he continued, "I love you and I will do anything to win your love."

She strengthened herself desperately.

"You do not need to do anything for it, alas!"

And she fled.

When the Count came to find her, there was only the Duke talking to the stage hands.

"Where is Esperance?"

"I have no idea," replied Charles de Morlay dryly.

Albert turned on his heel, delighted to see the Duke out of humour.

Genevieve caught up with Andromeda who was running away out of breath, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. Genevieve saw her enter the grove leading to the clearing and there she joined her.

"Esperance, my darling, my little sister, stop, I beg you."

Her voice calmed the girl. She caught hold of one of the branches and clung to it, gasping.

"Genevieve, Genevieve, why am I here?"

Her eyes shone with a wild light. She seemed to be absolutely exalted.

"He loves me, he loves me...."

"And I love him." And she threw herself in her friend's arms. "I am as happy as you now, for I love.... The thick cloud that hung over everything is gone. Everything is bright and beautiful. This dark grove is sparkling with sunlight and...?"

Genevieve stopped her.

"Little sister, you are raving. Your pulse is racing with fever. We must go back. Think of poor Albert."

Esperance drew herself up proudly, replying, "I will never betray him, I will tell the truth, and I will become the wife of the Duke."

"You are talking wildly, dearest, the Duke will not marry you."

"He will marry me, I swear it!"

"Albert will enter the Chartist Monastery and the Countess Styvens will die of sorrow."

"The Countess Styvens," said Esperance slowly.

As the sweet face of the mother came before her mind's eye she began to tremble all over.

Maurice had followed the girls into the grove, and he found them now in each other's arms.

"Genevieve," said Esperance, "not a word of what I have said!"

"Have you both gone crazy? They are looking everywhere for Esperance for the 'Judgment of Paris,' and here you are congratulating and kissing each other!"

"Cousin, I needed the air, don't scold. Genevieve looked for me and found me before anybody else, and I kissed her because I love her most."

She spoke fast and laughed nervously.

"Who freed you from your chains?"

"Perseus, it was his duty!"

"And now he is going to give you an apple."

"Then," she said very prettily, "I must try to deserve it. Come help me to make myself beautiful."

She led Genevieve away by the hand.

Maurice remained rooted to the spot. Somehow he guessed what sudden change had operated upon his cousin's spirit. Something must have taken place in the corridor between these two! He murmured sadly, "Poor Albert, poor little cousin!"

The young Count appeared before him in his most radiant humour.

"I have just met Esperance," he said. "She was joyous, brilliant, I have never before seen her so happy!"

Maurice gnawed his moustache, and moved rather angrily.

"We should never have come here," he said, "success has turned her head."

"She was born for success," said the Count. "I often ask myself whether I have a right to accept the sacrifice she is making for me."

"My dear friend, when things are well you should leave them alone."

"When you love as I love, you desire above everything the happiness of the one you love."

"Unless the one you love should prefer someone else to you?"

"You are wrong, Maurice. I would sacrifice myself for Esperance's happiness if I knew she wanted to marry another man."

Maurice shrugged his shoulders.

"We are not of the same race. Your blood runs colder in your veins than mine, for mine boils. But, perhaps you have a better understanding of these things?"

And he left the Count to go and help the Duke prepare the "Judgment of Paris."

Three young girls had been chosen for this tableau. Mlle. de Berneuve, a beautiful brunette (Hera); Mlle. Lebrun, with flaming hair (Athene); and Esperance, delicately blonde, was to represent Aphrodite, to whom the shepherd Paris would award the prize for beauty.

To personify Aphrodite the girl wore a long pink tunic, with a peplum of the same colour heavily embroidered. Her hair was piled high on her head, leaving the lovely nape of her neck half covered by her draperies, her exquisitely delicate arms emerging from a sleeveless tunic. To represent the shepherd Paris, the Duke was wearing a short tunic embroidered with agate beads to hold the stuff down, and a sheep skin. A red cap was on his head. He was magnificent to look upon.

The stage began to revolve. Paris held out his apple to Aphrodite, who went crimson at his glance. The girl's blushes did not escape the audience, where the comments varied according to the person who made them.

Maurice, Genevieve, and Jean understood what Esperance read in Paris's eyes. A sad smile gave a melancholy grace to the lovely Aphrodite. Both the actors had forgotten that they were not alone. Hypnotized under the gaze of Paris, the young girl made a gesture towards him. A sharp, "Don't move" from the prompter brought her back to herself. She turned her head, saw the audience, with the eyes and glasses of everyone focussed upon her. It seemed to her that they must all know her secret. She tottered; and supported herself upon Athene. She must have fallen from the frame and been badly hurt, if the Duke had not caught her just in time. A cry escaped from the audience. The Marquis de Montagnac gave a sign to the stage hands to stop revolving the stage.

Albert climbed up on the stage at once. He thrust Paris quickly aside, picked up the girl and carried her out on to the terrace. Maurice and Jean followed him. She was not unconscious, but she could not speak and she recognized no one. Genevieve knelt beside her. At first delicacy—discretion—held the spectators back, but curiosity soon drove them forward. But the Duke did not appear. He had seemingly vanished.

The Doctor of the Chateau was called from playing croquet. He began by ordering the crowd away. Esperance was stretched out on an easy chair on the terrace. The Doctor looked at her for a moment, amazed at her beauty, then sat beside her, feeling her pulse. Genevieve described what had happened. He listened attentively.

"There is nothing serious," he said, "only a little exhaustion and collapse. I will go and mix a soothing drink for her."

Esperance, still unconscious, was carried by her fiance to her room, where Genevieve and Mlle. Frahender put her to bed. Albert went back to wait for the Doctor. Maurice went in search of Charles de Morlay. He met a forester, who told him that the Duke had gone for a ride in the forest, and had sent word to the Duchess that he might not be back to lunch.

Maurice returned disturbed and thoughtful. Genevieve was waiting for him with the news that the Doctor had himself administered a sleeping draught to Esperance which he said should make her sleep at least five hours.

"So much the better! That will give us a little time to consider and to decide what is to be done. The truth is that we ought to clear out this very day! Love is a miscreant!"

"Not always, fortunately," murmured Genevieve.

"You, Genevieve, have a balanced mind, calm, just. If only my cousin had your equilibrium!"

"Oh! Maurice, Maurice...."

A tear ran down Genevieve's eyelashes. She closed her eyes. He took the lovely head in his hands and his lips rested on her pure forehead. They remained so for one marvellous, never-to-be-forgotten second.

When he left her Maurice met Albert Styvens. They walked side by side towards the woods.

"I am very much alarmed," said the Count, "not about Esperance's health, but about her state of mind. I am a poor psychologist, but my love for your cousin has sharpened my wits. It seems to me that the Duke is trying to make Esperance love him."

"Possibly; I had not noticed."

"Yes, Maurice, you have noticed and you have no right to deny it. I want to ask your advice. The Duke and I both love your cousin. One of us must lose. Just now I repulsed the Duke so rudely that he could have demanded satisfaction, but I foresee that he will let it pass. That attitude, so unusual to his temperament, proves that he wants to avoid scandal. Why? What is his object?"

"I don't know," said Maurice. "He has gone riding in the forest, probably to calm his nerves with solitude. He loves your fiancee, but his honour forces him to respect her."

"Perhaps," said Albert.

"I think," said Maurice, "that we should all leave this evening or to-morrow morning at the latest. Esperance is not ill, only worn out. She is easily exhausted."

"And if she loves the Duke?" pursued the Count.

"Then it is my place to ask you what you are going to do about it?"

Albert was silent a minute, then raising his pale face, answered slowly: "If she loves the Duke, I shall have to ask him what are his intentions; and if, as I believe, he wishes to marry her, I shall die a Chartist!"

The third gong vibrated, announcing lunch.

After lunch, Albert, Maurice, Jean, and Genevieve settled themselves under a great oak, which was said to have been planted by a delightful little Duchess of Castel-Montjoie, who had been celebrated at Court during the Regency. A marble table and a heavy circular bench made this wild corner quite cosy, and sheltered from the sun and from the curious. The tree was just opposite the tower where Esperance was sleeping so deeply, and Mlle. Frahender was to give a signal from the window when she awoke. Neither of them felt much inclined for conversation, for their eyes were fixed on the window opposite. About half-past four Mlle. Frahender appeared, and Genevieve hastened to the room.

Esperance was sitting up in bed, remembering nothing.

"Albert, Maurice, and Jean are over there. Do you wish to see them?"

Esperance rose up quickly, wrapping a robe of blue Japanese crepe embroidered in pink wisterias about her, and gracefully fastened up her hair.

"Let them come, if you please, now."

The young men entered and stopped in amazement at the change that had already taken place in her. Instead of finding her a wreck they discovered her pink, gay and laughing.

"What happened to me?" she asked. "My little Mademoiselle does not know, she was not well herself. There is my Aphrodite costume. What happened to me?"

"It was very simple," explained Maurice. "You stayed too long with your head hanging down during the rehearsal, and as you were tired it made you ill. Albert brought you here and you have been asleep for five hours. Now you are your charming self again. We will leave you so that you can dress, and then if you feel like it we will take you for a drive."

"I will be very quick; in ten minutes I will be with you."

The young people did not know what to think. It would now be very difficult to suggest that Esperance should withdraw from the fete, as apparently every trace of her indisposition had disappeared.

Then Albert spoke:

"I am going to ask Esperance to give up appearing at this performance as a favour to me," he said. "I shall contribute largely to the charitable fund, and we can go back to Penhouet."

He had hardly finished speaking when Esperance came into the little salon.

"Here I am you see and the ten minutes is not yet up!"

A discreet tap at the door made them all turn round. The Dowager Duchess appeared.

"Ah! my dear child, what a joy to see you so restored."

"I must apologize, Madame, for the trouble I gave you. It is all over, all over," she said, shaking her pretty head; "and I am as well as possible."

"I am more than delighted," said the Duchess, sitting down. "You have no idea, my dear Albert, of the perfect disaster Esperance's absence would have caused. She is the star of our bill, as they say, and on whom we all rely. You know that my son wants to be elected Deputy, and this fete will secure him the votes of the whole community. More than fifteen hundred people have taken tickets. The local livery stable men count on making a fortune. All the villagers are getting their rooms ready to let. If that adorable child had failed us nothing could have made it up to them, and my son would have been ruined."

She rose up.

"But," she added, with the sweet smile that won all hearts, "you see me so happy, so reassured, that you must all be joyful with me."

The young people led her to the foot of the stair. The carriage was waiting to take them for their drive.

The visit from the amiable Duchess rather disconcerted Albert, and Jean, and Maurice and Genevieve. Everything seemed like the warring of an implacable destiny. All four felt absolutely impotent.

The drive was stimulating. Esperance drew life at every breath. They could watch the colour coming back into her cheeks.

As the carriage came out into a clearing, the Duke de Morlay rode wildly by. His horse was covered with sweat and trembling so that he had some difficulty in mastering it. The Duke inquired for Esperance's health and decided that it must be excellent from her looks.

"But my dear Albert," he said, laughing, "you almost knocked me over this morning, however, I do not blame you, I would have done as much myself in your place. However, I must be off, my horse is fagged. I shall see you later."

And he was gone.

"How pale the Duke looked," exclaimed Esperance.

"He is fatigued, he has been riding since this morning."

"Did he not lunch with you, cousin?"

"No."

"Why did he go away in such haste?"

"You are too curious."

Then, looking hard at her, "Perhaps he thought, like the good Duchess, that your weakness was serious, and that all his little arrangements were going to fall through."

"I understand that the Duchess cared, since the election of her son is at stake, but the Duke, how would it affect him?"

Albert sitting opposite her in the carriage, looked her full in the face.

"Perhaps he will never find another opportunity to pay his court to you."

"Whew, that is straightforward bluntness for you!" thought Maurice.

Esperance grew red. The recollection of what had happened began to come back little by little. She closed her eyes to be able to think more clearly. Albert left her in her silence a minute, then he said, "We had planned to carry you away to-day, but you heard what the Duchess said just now. I feel bound by the confidence of that old friend to remain. My fate is in your pretty hands. Be circumspect with the Duke. Frank, and loyal with your fiance."

And he took her hands, in a long kiss.

The coachman was told to turn around, for it was getting late. The horses set off at a trot.

Nothing more was said between them, about the Duke.

After dinner, the Duke arose, and announced, "The fete will be the day after to-morrow. We have only rehearsed once, and then, not in full. I feel somewhat responsible for the exhaustion of our little star. Her head, hanging down, was so beautiful, that I thought only of the pose, without realizing how painful it must have become to the artist. I ask Mile. Darbois' pardon. Also, I should like another stage director. I propose M. Maurice Renaud, our ingenious collaborator, to whom we owe our magnificent costumes, and originality of our decorations."

Everyone applauded, and Maurice was proclaimed director of the fete.

"I thank you, and accept", he said simply.

He thought, "That is his way of getting rid of me."

"I hope, my dear Director," continued the Duke, "that you will make us rehearse hard to-morrow. If anything goes wrong we shall still have the morning of the following day, for the fete does not begin until half-past two."

Maurice rose, and in a comical tone announced, "Ladies, gentlemen, and artists, I beg you to be prompt for a rehearsal of the tableaux vivants to-morrow at ten o'clock. Any artist who is late, will pay a fine of a hundred francs, to the poor of the Duchess." And as they laughingly protested, "There is a quarter of an hour's grace accorded as in the theatres, but not one instant more. My stage-manager is empowered to collect the fines."

They followed the action of the Duchess and rose from their seats. The Duke went over to Maurice.

"I would like to talk over some of the details with you. They must interest us, but they mean nothing to the others. A cigarette?"

They strolled to the end of the terrace. A pretty Chinese umbrella sheltered a delightful nook. The Duke and Maurice dropped into easy chairs.

"Will you give me your word that what I am going to say to you will be for you alone; that you will not repeat it?"

The young man refused, "How can I give my word without even knowing the subject of your confidences?"

"It concerns your cousin."

"Then it concerns Count Styvens."

"Indirectly, yes."

Maurice got up.

"I would rather not listen to you, for my duty as a man of honour would compel me to speak, should it be necessary."

The Duke sat still and reflected for a minute.

"Very well, you shall judge when you have heard me, what you think you had better do. I leave you free. I love your cousin Esperance: she is the fiancee of Count Albert, but she is not in love with him."

Maurice had thrown away his cigarette and leaning forward, his hands clasped, his eyes on the ground, listened intently.

"I have paid her in a way attentions for a year; I admit it was wrong for I had no definite intentions. A visit to Penhouet, however, completely changed my opinion of this little maiden. The atmosphere of beauty, of calm in which she lived, the liking and respect I felt for M. and Madame Darbois, and the free play of intelligence and taste I there discovered, made a deep impression on me and I could not forget. The ordinary life of society, so artificial, so devoid of real interest, this life that eats up hours and weeks and months in futilities, in nothings that come to nothing, all this became suddenly quite burdensome to me. I continuously thought of the adorable child I had seen at Penhouet, brighter than all else in that radiant place. I was travelling, and did not learn of the accident to your cousin and Count Styvens until I returned to Paris. Then I wrote for news."

"I came back here to my old aunt's, my nearest relative. I wanted to ask her to invite the whole of the Darbois family to spend a month here at Montjoie. A letter from Count Albert, announcing his engagement to Esperance, was a terrible blow to me. I conceived the detestable idea of revenging myself on Albert, but every scheme went against me. I have been beaten without ever having fought." Then he paused.

"Since you have done me the honour to make me your confidant, permit me to say that the little ambush you laid for Esperance this morning...."

The Duke interrupted, "That ambush was a vulgar trick, theatrical and cheap. I spare you the trouble of having to tell me so. I was about to disclose myself to the young ladies when I heard your cousin speak my name. Then I kept still, hoping to learn something. What man could have resisted? I heard these words spoken to Mlle. Hardouin, 'Yes, the presence of the Duke of Morlay disturbs me; I do not know if that is love, but I do know that I do not love Albert.' They went on towards the clearing; I was compelled to leave my hiding place. You know the rest. The cry the child gave, and her look of reproach unmanned me. I understood at that moment that I loved in deadly earnest; that my intention of avenging myself on Albert was nothing but a vain manifestation of pride, that the ambush was a cowardly concession to my reputation as a—well, deceiver of women. You know what I mean."

He shrugged his shoulders scornfully.

"The man I was trying to be has left the man I am, and now, Renaud, here is what I want you to know. Esperance Darbois loves me, I was convinced of that at the rehearsal. I love her ardently in return. She will not be happy with Albert, and I want to marry her. I will employ no 'illicit means,' as the lawyers say. On other scores I shall feel no remorse to have broken your cousin's engagement. My fortune is twice Albert's; he is a Count, I a Duke, and what is more, a Frenchman."

Maurice stood up nervously.

"You are a very gallant man, Duke, and my sympathy was yours from your first visit to Penhouet, but I am greatly distressed that you should have made me your confidant, for I must in honour bound support Albert."

"I do not see why! It seems to me that the happiness of your cousin might count before any friendship for Albert Styvens."

"But where is her real happiness, I might say her lasting happiness?"

The moon had risen radiantly pure. From their elevation on the terrace, they could overlook all the garden and park sloping gently to the lake. In a boat two young girls were rowing. They were alone.

"You leave me free to act?"

"Absolutely."

"Till to-morrow," said Maurice pressing his hands.

The Duke remained alone on the terrace. He saw the young man go rapidly towards the lake. He heard him hail the girls and saw him climb into the boat with them, then disappear after he had waved with Genevieve's handkerchief a signal of adieu.



CHAPTER XXV

When Maurice and Esperance and Genevieve landed, the Duke was still pacing up and down on the terrace. Maurice had jumped lightly on to the shore, and had helped the young girls out, and having taken them to the Chateau, rejoined the Duke who was waiting for him.

"You are right. Esperance loves you. My uncle comes to-morrow evening. He is a man of such uprightness that he will find, no doubt, the best solution of this most complicated situation. Only I beg you to spare Albert."

The Duke replied instantly, "I will make every effort to be generous; but this morning he thrust me away from your cousin in a deliberate attempt to insult me. I pretended to blame it on his anxiety, but I may not be able to control myself again, if he drives me so far."

"Alas! I am afraid that you are both of you at the mercy of the first thing that happens. For the love of God, keep cool. And don't forget to come to-morrow at ten for the rehearsal."

And they parted.

Maurice did not sleep a wink. Esperance and Genevieve went to bed very late, after talking for a long time of the future.

"Poor Albert," murmured the little star still as she closed her eyes in the very moment of gliding into the unreal life of dreams.

Mlle. Frahender had some difficulty next morning in waking the two young girls. Another maid waited on them, for the Duke had sent his goddaughter back to her family.

"Let us all three take our chocolate together on this little table. The sun is so gentle this morning, to-day ought to have a beautiful life ahead of it. My parents come at six and we must go to meet them."

She chattered on all through the breakfast, and kissed Genevieve in overflowing happiness.

"I love to see you so, Esperance," said the old Mademoiselle. "You have scarcely seemed yourself lately, even at Penhouet. Now you are truly yourself, you are radiant with your seventeen years. It is a pleasure to look at you and to listen to you."

When the two girls came into the hall the Director, Maurice Renaud, the Marquis Assistant, and the stage-manager, Louis de Marset, were the only others who had arrived. The manufacturer of the paper models was arranging the rock, the dragon, and the headless horse in the middle of the room. He held a brush red with dragon's blood, gave it a touch, and recoiled to admire the effect; then taking the sea weed he had gathered from real rocks, began placing it in little bunches on his pasteboard rock.

"In regard to the half white horse, a magnificent cardboard mount," said Maurice, flatteringly, "we shall not use it. Another tableau has been substituted for that one."

The Assistant came up to Maurice. "Can you tell me, sir, why they will not give the 'Europa and the Bull'?"

"Because Mlle. Darbois has been far from well, and the Duchess has requested that she shall not appear in more than two tableaux. She is to play a very difficult duet, as well, you know, and afterwards she will have to talk to all the people who crowd around her to buy flowers."

Jean was charged with excluding all those who were not in the tableaux. Albert was included in those not admitted, and he certainly would have held it against the Duke, had he still been Director; but Jean explained to him that Maurice had taken this means of making the rehearsal go more quickly. Genevieve, who was also excluded, kept the Count company, and tried to distract him; but he was in a very despondent humour. When he saw the Duke arrive so late, he said, somewhat crossly, "He is delaying the rehearsal."

"Oh! no," said Genevieve, "he does not come on until the second group, and there is no need for him to appear in costume."

When Andromeda was extended upon her rock the Duke took his position. They were alone in their wooden frame.

"Won't you trust yourself to me?" he breathed.

"I love you with all my soul."

"My life is yours," she replied.

The scene had turned very quickly, the curtain, had fallen. Maurice came up and helped the Duke to unfasten the girl. She was radiant. He was transformed. Maurice guessed that they had spoken together, but he asked nothing.

The second tableau was given immediately. Paris was not in costume. He held the apple to the glorious Aphrodite, the picture turned, the rehearsal was over for Esperance. The Duke still had to take part in two other scenes.

When Esperance was dressed she followed Maurice's advice to go join Genevieve and Albert.

"What a relief," he exclaimed at sight of her, "I began to think it would never be over."

"Yet we did not lose any time."

"Oh, no! but now it will go more slowly. The Countess de Morgueil will have to make several repetitions of her tableau of the enchantress Melusina."

It was the little de Marset who had spoken. Esperance started. For a long time it had been rumoured that the very pretty Countess de Morgueil, widowed two years ago, was violently infatuated with the Duke de Morlay, who was said not to be indifferent to her affection.

Afraid apparently that his meaning had not been plain, Marset insisted, "she is always circling about the Duke."

"But does he care for her?" asked a young woman with a hard face, who was just going to give herself a dose of morphine, and who was never seen without a cigarette between her lips.

"Who knows?" queried Marset, with a knowing air.

Esperance had grown very pale. Albert was controlling himself with difficulty. He observed Genevieve's constraint, and the trouble of his fiancee.

"Shall we walk a little?"

They walked towards the woods and Maurice, in some excitement, soon joined them. He was greatly troubled, and longed to be able to tell Albert how things were going. He was very fond of this fine fellow, and at the same time felt great sympathy for the Duke. He understood perfectly well why Esperance should prefer him to the Count, but at the same time he blamed her a little for causing so many complications. When he saw her so fresh and charming beside Albert, he grew more disturbed. Genevieve quietly drew him aside.

"You are getting excited, Maurice, and I see clearly that you are blaming Esperance, but let me tell you, dear love, that you are unjust. At this moment Esperance is walking in a dream. Nothing real exists for her. For three months she has suffered very much, struggled very much, and felt so much. Events have come very quickly. She finds herself all of a sudden at the fount of the realization of all her fondest hopes; to be loved by the one she loves!... Be patient, Maurice, she is so young and so sensitive...."

"Your heart, dearest Genevieve, is an admirable accountant. It adds the reasons, multiplies the excuses, subtracts the errors, and divides the responsibility. You are adorable and I love you with all my heart. Come with me, it is time for the concert. You go on immediately after Delaunay. The Duchess is unable to contain herself at the idea of hearing you recite her poem."

The Duke passed by, accompanied by the pretty Countess de Morgueil, at whose conversation he was smiling politely and replying vaguely. He seemed not to have seen the others. Like Esperance, he was living in a world of dreams, happy in a realm where there was neither impatience nor jealousy. He knew that he was loved.

After lunch Esperance said that she was going to rest, so as to be fresh for next day. Her father and mother were to come on the Princess's little yacht. She and Mlle. Frahender were to go alone to meet them. That gave her several hours of solitude to think of him, only of him.

Maurice repeated his last orders for the engrossing fete, against which he railed ceaselessly, in spite of Genevieve's constant efforts to calm him.

"Oh! of course, it is perfectly evident that I am unreasonable, I know it; but if I break my leg slipping on an orange peel, you would not prevent me from swearing at the person who had peeled the fruit there, would you?"

Genevieve laughed in spite of herself. "Be a good boy, tell your uncle everything as soon as he comes; but say nothing against Esperance, for that would not be right."

Her lovely face was very sad. Maurice looked at her with a world of tenderness, "My darling, forgive me; the truth is that I am so worried. Albert's face is hard and set. He knows nothing, cannot know anything, but he is gifted with the intuition that simple souls often possess. I am very uneasy, I can tell you. Say nothing to Esperance. Come now, let us stroll into this thicket and talk just by ourselves for awhile."

They entered the thicket, holding each other close, in silence. When they came to the clearing they stopped short. The Duke was there, stretched out upon the bench, smoking, dreaming.

He got up, surprised, and apologized.

"I had just come back here to live over an unforgettable moment."

"This corner must be the rendezvous for the slaves of the little god," said Maurice, bowing to the statuette of Love Enchained. "We will leave you."

"No," said the Duke quickly, "Please stay. Your happiness shows me the vision of which I dreamed. Art is the inspiration of the beautiful, and I believe, that artists have a more delicate sense of love than other people.

"I believe, in truth," said Maurice, "that artists, move in a much larger world than that which is inhabited by either the bourgeoisie or the aristocracy."

They talked for a long time, and returned to the Chateau together.

Albert was beneath the green oak, talking to the Dowager Duchess, who was telling him how much she admired Genevieve. She had repeated her poem so wonderfully to her alone that morning! They did not see the trio emerge from the thicket, and Maurice was glad of it. He felt more and more constrained. The complicity against the poor fellow's happiness seemed to him a form of treason. He looked at his watch. It was only five o'clock.

"That is impossible. This watch must have stopped."

The Duke went to his room. His man gave him an elegant little note, and as his master threw it down on the table, "They await an answer."

"Very well, I will send one."

The servant withdrew. On the stair he met an English maid waiting the answer.

"Monsieur will send an answer."

"The Countess will be displeased. These French gentlemen are more gallant but less polite than our English lords. She is as much in love as Love itself."

"He also is in love."

"Then it ought to be easy enough, for Madame is a widow."

"But it is not your mistress that he loves."

"Ah! who then?"

"Ah! nothing for nothing." And he held out his hands.

"Ah! shocking!"

"Very well," and he started, as if to return to his master.

She stopped him.

"Monsieur, Gustave you know very well that I am promised."

"Nothing for nothing."

Again he held out his hands. She hesitated a moment, looking up and down, and then let him have her finger tips. With a brutal gesture he caught her to him and kissed her furiously. The little English maid, blushing and rumpled, drew back and announced coldly, "You French are brutes. Now, the information I paid for in advance."

"Very well. He is in love with little Esperance Darbois."

"The actress? But she is engaged to Count Styvens."

"It is the truth I have told you," replied the valet, proud of his own importance, "and if you will meet me in the grove, during dinner, I will tell you some more."

"Thanks, I know enough now," said the maid dryly, leaving him.

She disappeared, but Gustave preened himself, certain of success. As he went downstairs he saw Count Albert, helping the old Mademoiselle and her charge into the carriage. Instinctively, he looked up to see his master's silhouette at the window. Albert was asking to be allowed to go with them, but Esperance had promised herself a quiet and restful drive.

"No, Albert, we shall be four with my father and mother, and this is a small carriage."

"But I will sit with the coachman."

"Look," said the young girl, laughing, "at the size of the seat, and remember that there will be two large bags and a hat box, a very big hat box, to hold a hat for mama, one for Genevieve, and one for me."

Albert sighed sadly and closed the carriage door, after he had kissed his fiancee's hand. As the carriage drove away he went up to the room his mother was to occupy when she arrived next day, and looked to see if all was ready.

He took a book and tried to read, but after a couple of minutes he threw it aside and went out of doors again. He stopped a moment on the terrace, considering where to go. A young lady stopped him as he was preparing to go down the steps.

"All alone, Count, and dreaming! Ah! you are thinking of her. Come, let us stroll along together."

And the young Countess de Morgueil took his arm before he had time to answer.

"You were not at the rehearsal this morning. You know that they have given up the tableaux of 'Europa.' Did you insist upon it?"

"No, why should I have made myself so ridiculous?"

"But the Duke pretended...."

"Dear Madame, the Duke could not have pretended anything except that he did not wish to appear without any clothes on, a decision that I heartily approved of."

"They say that he tries to fascinate every woman he meets. What do you think?"

"And what do you?" said the Count, looking her straight in the eye.

"Oh! he would never cause me great palpitation," she returned meaningly.

"Are you making any allusion to Mlle. Darbois?" he asked, stopping abruptly.

"I am engaged to Mlle. Darbois, I believe you know, Madame. You are piqued because you love the Duke de Morlay and he seems to be deserting you to hover near my fiancee. Do as I do; have a little patience; to-morrow by this time the fete will be over and I shall have left with Mlle. Darbois. Don't be either too nervous or too malicious, it does not agree with your type of beauty. I kiss your hands."

He went towards the Chateau, and took up his vigil in the little salon adjoining Esperance's room.

The Countess of Morgueil was confused and mortified. "He is not so stupid as he looks," she thought.

Albert was reading, but listening all the time. Finally a carriage stopped before the Chateau. He went down quickly and caught Esperance in his arms so tightly that the young girl gave a little scream.

"Oh! pardon, pardon. It is so long since I have seen you."

He kissed Mme. Darbois's hand and almost crushed the professor's fingers in his nervous grasp. He asked anxiously concerning Penhouet, and expressed his desire to return there immediately. Maurice and Genevieve came running up.

"How happy every one looks here," said Mme. Darbois.

"Don't believe it, my dear aunt; we are standing on a volcano."

"Ah! the cares of the fete weigh upon you. It always seems as if everything were going wrong at the last moment."

She laughed, proud of her penetrations. Genevieve tugged at Maurice's vest as he was about to set the dear lady right.

"Ah! well, I leave you to dress. This evening, uncle, I want to have a chat with you as I have something serious to say to you."

The philosopher and his wife looked at each other understandingly.

"Very well, my boy, I shall be entirely at your disposal for as long as you like, for I can guess...."

And he looked at Genevieve. Maurice despaired of ever making him understand.



CHAPTER XXVI

Everyone greeted the philosopher with delight when he appeared in the ante-chamber where the guests were assembled before dinner. The Duke came to present his greetings to Mme. Darbois and stayed talking to her for some time. He saw that she liked him, but foresaw at the same time that it would be very painful for the good woman to have to accept another son-in-law. During dinner the Duchess steered the conversation towards philosophy, wishing to please Francois, who was placed on her right—art and science being to her the highest titles of nobility.

"Ah! I am no philosopher," protested the Marquis de Montagnac. "I accept old age only as a chastisement, and not having committed any criminal act, I revolt against the injustice of it."

And Louis de Marset, bending towards his neighbour, who had had a great reputation for beauty before age and illness had pulled her down, remarked, "One cannot be and have been, is not that true, Madame?"

"You are mistaken, my dear sir. There are some poor people who are born fools and never change."

A smile of delight appeared on every face.

The Duke found himself in an argument with Lord Glerey, a phlegmatic Englishman, whose marital misfortunes had made both London and Paris laugh.

"You seem," said the Duke, "to confuse indifference with philosophy."

"I do not confuse them, my dear sir. My apparent indifference is simply scorn for the sarcasms, the cruelty of the people of society who are always ready to rejoice when anyone attacks the honour or love of another."

The Duke murmured slowly, "Certainly what they call 'the world' deserves scorn. And all the same, taken separately, every individual of this collectivity is a man or woman like any other, a suffering being, who laughs just the same, like an eternal Figaro, for fear of being compelled to weep."

Count Albert was talking to an old sceptic.

"But," the Countess de Morgueil addressed him suddenly, "What would you do, if on the eve of attaining the longed-for happiness, you found yourself suddenly confronted by an insurmountable obstacle."

"Everything would depend on the quality of the happiness in prospect, Madame. Some happiness easily abandoned, and some happiness is to be struggled for until death itself."

Maurice had guessed the point of this sudden attack. He was none the less surprised by Albert's answer.

"Decidedly, it is going to be even more difficult than I feared," he thought.

Indeed, Count Albert had evidently assumed a change of attitude. Love and jealousy had transformed this simple and generous heart into a being of metal; he had not lost any of his goodness, but he had put his soul in a state of defence and prepared himself for the struggle. He did not know anything, but his presentiments filled him with anguish. He was not unaware that his austerity provoked irony, but now it seemed to him that the irony was taking a form of pity which enraged him.

Dinner was over, the great hall filled with groups gathered together as their tastes dictated. Bridge and poker tables were produced, and some of the young people gathered about a table where liqueurs were being served. Maurice took his uncle by the arm and led him away.

"Let us go to your room, for no one must hear what I have to say to you."

"Not even your aunt?"

"No, uncle, not even aunt."

Francois was astonished, for he had supposed that it was of his own future that Maurice wished to speak. They went towards the Tower of Saint Genevieve.

"Uncle, what I have to say to you is very grave."

"What a lot of preamble! Well, I am listening."

"The Duke de Morlay-La-Branche loves Esperance passionately."

"Well, that is a pity for the Duke, but he will console himself easily enough."

Maurice was silent before he continued, "Esperance is madly in love with the Duke!"

Francois started violently.

"You are raving, Maurice; she is engaged to Count Styvens and has no right to forget him."

"She has never been in love with the Count, and can hardly endure him since she has foreseen another future."

"What future?"

"The Duke wants to marry Esperance."

"But it is impossible, impossible," said the philosopher violently. "A word that has been given cannot be taken back so lightly."

"Calm yourself, uncle, if you please. For three days I have been wandering about in this untenable situation. We must make a decision. Every instant I fear an outbreak either from Albert or from the Duke."

"How have Esperance and the Duke contrived to see each other?"

"I will tell you all that uncle, later, but the how and the why are not very important at this moment. I want you to send for Albert. Esperance does not wish to marry him. She has loved the Duke a long time, but did not know that he loved her, and did not suppose an alliance possible between our families, even though you have made the name illustrious. For that matter I should never have supposed myself that the Duke would consent to make what would generally be considered a mesalliance."

"It all seems unbelievable," murmured Francois.

And with his head in his hands he groaned despairingly, "How can we sacrifice that noble and unfortunate Albert?"

"One of the three must suffer, uncle. It would be a crime to sacrifice Esperance who has the right to love whom she pleases and to choose her own life. The Duke Morlay is loved, Count Albert is not and never has been. He knows it as you know it now. Esperance consented to marry him through gratitude to you."

"Ah! I feared as much," said the professor prostrated.

Francois Darbois remained a long time in thought, then he got up, his face lined with sadness.

"Tell your cousin to come to me, I will wait for her here."

"I will send her to you at once. Forgive me for having so distressed you, dear uncle."

"It was your duty!"

Francois pressed his hand affectionately. Left alone he felt despairing. The futility of the precautions he had taken, the inanity of all reasoning, of all logic, plunged him into the scepticism he had been combatting for so many years.

Maurice found his cousin talking to Albert, the Marquis of Montagnac, and Genevieve.

"Your father is feeling a little indisposed and is going to bed. Would not you like to say good-night to him?"

Esperance rose immediately. Albert wanted to go with her, but Maurice held him back, and began asking under what conditions he proposed to play the duet with Esperance next day.

"It is all one to me," replied the Count wearily. "I am in a hurry to get away from here. I find myself too much disturbed by my nerves, and you know, cousin, how unusual it is for me to be nervous."

At this term of family familiarity, Maurice shivered. He thought of the interview now taking place in his uncle's room. Genevieve joined them and they strolled up and down, but Albert made them return continually near the tower.

When Esperance opened the door of the little salon where her father was waiting, she saw him in such an attitude of distress that she threw herself at his knees.

"Father, darling father, I ask your pardon. I am ruining your life just as you begin to reap the harvest of so many noble efforts. You have been so good to me," she sobbed, "and I must seem to you so ungrateful. Do not suffer so, I beg you. Take me away with you, let us go and I will do my best to forget; let us go!"

"But," said the Professor, hesitatingly, "Albert would follow."

The girl rose.

"Oh! no, not that. I wish I could marry Albert without loving him; I have tried, but I cannot go on to the end, I cannot!"

"You really love the Duke?"

"Father, for a whole year I have struggled against that love."

"Why have you never told me?"

"Because I saw nothing in the Duke's attentions except the agitation they caused me; and I was too ashamed to speak of it to you. I thought, considering the position of the Duke, that I was an aspiring fool. He overheard me talking to Genevieve. When he appeared before us, I so little expected to see him there at such an hour—six o'clock in the morning, in the grove—that my heart could not bear the shock, and I fainted. From that instant I understood how much I loved him. I had no idea before of the power of love, but now I feel it the master of my life. I will sacrifice that to your will, father; but I will not sacrifice the immense happiness of loving. Even if the Duke did not love me, I should still be uplifted by my own love."

She sat down beside her father.

"Who knows what unhappiness may not be lurking for me, ready to spring at any moment?"

She drew near him shivering.

Francois took her charming head in his hands. He looked at her tenderly, but with an expression almost of terror in his face.

"Alas! all happiness built upon the unhappiness of others always risks disillusionment—and collapse."

"Dear father, my life has been bathed in such sunlight for the last three days, that I shall keep that glow of warmth for the rest of my life."

"I only ask, you little daughter, to do nothing, to say nothing, before the end of this fete. We have no right, however grave our personal troubles and responsibilities are, to betray the hospitality of the Duchess. To-morrow, after the fete, I will talk to Albert. Go, my darling, go back to that poor boy. I hate to send you to practice a dissimulation that I abhor, but we are in a situation of such delicacy and difficulty.... God keep you!"

He kissed her tenderly. She went back to her fiance, to find to her surprise that the Countess de Morgueil had just passed by with him. Maurice pointed them out where they were walking slowly in the distance.

"Oh! so much the better," said Esperance. "That gives me an excuse to go to my room."

Maurice urged her to wait. "I am convinced that that woman is meddling in our affairs. It is plain enough that we have upset her."

"How? What do you mean, cousin?"

"Did you not know that the Countess is madly in love with the Duke, and that she had hoped to marry him this winter?"

"Poor woman," sighed Esperance, sincerely.

The Duke came by, and seeing them alone, he joined them.

"The three of you alone?" he cried. "Then you will allow me to join you for a moment?"

"Look," said Maurice, indicating Albert and the Countess de Morgueil.

"There is a dangerous woman who is making mischief at this moment!... And, nevertheless, I owe her the happiness this moment brings me."

"My father," said Esperance, "has been as indulgent to me as always."

"Thanks for these tidings," said the Duke. "Do you think he will receive me to-morrow, if I go to him?"

"Oh! certainly, after the fete; a little while after, for first he wished to speak to Count Styvens," she said timidly.

"Will you," the Duke asked Maurice, "make an appointment for me, and tell me as soon as you have an answer?"

"With pleasure."

The Duke bowed to the girls and withdrew. He took Maurice's hand, "I am happy, my friend, everything is going as I wish. I seem to hear laughter coming out of the shadows."

And he disappeared.

The young people waited for Albert a little while longer, but as he did not appear, Maurice advised the girls to retire, and he returned to sit down anxiously under the oak.

He had been there hardly a quarter of an hour when he saw the Countess de Morgueil go by. She was alone and walked nervously. On the doorstep she stopped and looked back into the distance. He saw her tremble, then go in quickly. He stood up on his bench to see what she had been looking at, but he almost fell, and had to steady himself by holding on to a branch. Albert and the Duke were together. Albert had put his hand on the Duke's shoulder, and the Duke had removed that great hand. They were walking side by side towards the extensive terrace that commanded the countryside.

"Oh! the wretched woman! What can she have said? And to be able to do nothing, nothing," he thought.

He lighted a cigarette, waiting, he did not know for what. But he could not go back to his room.

As he put his hand on the Duke's shoulder Albert had said, "I wish to talk to you."

"Very well. I am listening."

"I want you to answer me with perfect truth."

"Your request would be offensive, Albert, if it were not for your emotion."

"Is it true that you love Esperance Darbois?"

"It is true."

"Is it true that you want to marry her?"

"It is true."

"My God! My God!" muttered Albert, and he stopped for a minute. He was choking. The Duke felt a profound pity for this man who was suffering at this moment the most terrible pain.

"Do you believe that she loves you?" Albert still went on.

"I have answered you with perfect frankness concerning myself, but do not ask me to answer for Mlle. Darbois."

"Yes; you are right, you cannot answer for her. I know that she does not love me, but I hoped to make her love me. I wanted to make her so happy!... That love has made a different man of me. What I regarded yesterday as a crime seems to me now the will of destiny. One of us two must disappear. If you kill me, I know her soul, she will not marry you; she would die rather. If I kill you, the tender compassion she feels for me will be changed into hatred. What I am doing now is a brutal act, an animal act, but I cannot do otherwise! My religious education had restrained my passions! At least I thought so," he said, passing his great hand across his stubborn forehead. "But no! My youth denied of love takes a terrible revenge upon me now, and I have to exert a horrible effort now not to strangle you."

The Duke had not stirred.

"I am at your orders, Albert; only I think you will have to arm yourself with patience for several hours longer. This fete, given by the Duchess, cannot be prevented by our quarrel. I suggest that you postpone our meeting until to-morrow evening. Our witnesses can meet if you like at one o'clock at the little Inn of the 'Three Roads.' It is only ten minutes distance from here. The innkeeper is loyal to me, I am his daughter's godfather. The garden is cut by a long alley which can serve as the field of honour. I will go at once to warn De Montagnac and his brother; then I will go to the 'Three Roads.'"

"Good," said Albert.

"Naturally, we leave Maurice Renaud out of our quarrel."

"Certainly," said Charles de Morlay bowing.

They parted. From a distance the young painter saw the Duke enter the great hall. Several minutes later Albert's tall form barred the horizon for a moment. He looked at the Tower of Saint Genevieve, then he also entered the hall. Then Maurice decided to go in himself. He sat down by a little table littered with magazines and periodicals, and picked up one, without ceasing for an instant to watch the two men. The Duke de Morlay was standing behind the Marquis, who was still at the whist table. Albert Styvens had sat down beside a diplomat from Italy, Cesar Gabrielli, a serious young man, a clever diplomat, and a renowned fencer. When Montagnac finished his hand, the Duke offered him a cigar.

"Will you help me with some arrangements for the performance to-morrow?"

He was about to refuse, but the Duke said briefly, "It is important, come!"

The two of them went out, only lingering a little on the way for a joke with the men and a compliment to the ladies. Then Maurice watched the diplomat, who rose at the same time, and invited Albert to admire the moon from the terrace. Maurice saw them disappearing towards the corner by the Chinese umbrella. That was the end of the terrace, and was out of sight from all the windows.

"It is all plain enough," thought the young man, "but when, where?"

He understood that neither of the two adversaries could take him either for confidant or for second.

"However," he said, as he went to his room. "I want to know. I must know. I will know."



CHAPTER XXVII

The next day, the day of the fete, all the Chateau, from early in the morning, was in a violent tumult. Maurice, the Marquis Assistant, and Jean Perliez were busy to the point of distraction; fortunately for Maurice, who had been unable to sleep and had called Jean at six to share the secret which had not been confided to him. He could not think of telling Genevieve, and Jean should be able to help keep watch.

"You try," he directed, "to watch Montagnac; I shall not leave the diplomat."

The Duke came in search of Maurice to ask for Esperance. He looked a little pale but showed much interest in the fete.

"Our dear Duchess must be rewarded for all the excitement we have caused her house."

"There is no reason to suppose," said Maurice, "that all the excitement will cease after the fete!"

The Duke would not show that he had understood. Maurice went to smoke a cigarette in the garden and was hardly surprised to see the doctor, who had been attached to the service of the Duchess for twenty years, and attended all the guests in the Chateau, talking animatedly with the diplomat. The doctor raised his arms in a horrified gesture, letting them fall again tragically. He gave every evidence of a violent struggle with himself. The diplomat remained calm, determined, and even authoritative. The poor doctor finally yielded. The diplomat shook his hand and left him.

The doctor with an expression of great distress, walking feebly, passed by Maurice, who would have stopped him.

"No, no. What? It is impossible.... You are not ill.... Leave me, dear sir.... I ... I must..."

He stammered unintelligible phrases, hastening his steps. Maurice re-entered the hall. He met the musician Xavier Flamand, who said, "I just saw the Count Styvens go out."

"At this hour?" exclaimed Montagnac, looking at the Duke.

"He has gone to meet his mother at the station. She arrives at eight o'clock. It is only seven, he will arrive half an hour too soon."

"He is a dutiful son," said Montagnac. "I am surprised that he has not taken his fiancee."

Maurice raised his head. "Then the Marquis knows nothing!" he said to himself.

He reflected, "How dense I am growing. Evidently neither the Duke nor Albert has told anyone the motive of their quarrel."

Jean came up and cut short his monologue.

"I think that the two other seconds are Count Alfred Montagnac, the Marquis's brother, and Captain Frederic Chevalier. Here they come now."

Indeed the three seconds had just come up to the Marquis, who asked Maurice to excuse him. "I will be back in a few moments, dear M. Renaud."

The Duke dropped down by Maurice.

"I believe the fete will be a great success, but I wonder if you long to have it over as heartily as I do."

"I regret," replied Maurice, "that our hostess ever thought of it, and that we ever had anything to do with it."

"Would you also regret having me for your cousin?"

"No, you know very well that I would not, but...."

"But?"

"I know...."

"You know?"

"Yes, I know."

"Who has told you?"

The Duke's face grew stern.

"No one, I give you my word, but I have guessed; it was not very difficult...."

"Then, my dear Maurice, I must ask you to remain absolutely silent. None of our seconds know the real reason of our meeting. None of them will ever know. This duel will be to the death, by the wish of Count Styvens, who has found himself justifiably offended."

"Where will you meet?"

"At the Inn of the 'Three Roads.'"

"When?"

"To-morrow, immediately after the fete. The Inn has been closed since this morning so as to receive no one except ourselves and our witnesses. Now, my dear Maurice, since you know, I want to ask you a favour. Here are some papers that I wrote last night. I am afraid my servant is on intimate terms with Mme. de Morgueil's English maid, and I dare not leave them in my room. I put them in your care. If luck is against me you will give these to the proper persons. If Count Albert is unfortunate, you will give me back the envelope. I'll see you later!"

He pressed the young man's hand in a close grasp.

The Duke de Castel-Montjoie, the Dowager's only son, had been chosen by the seconds as umpire. De Morlay and Styvens approved the choice.

The great hall had been invaded by a score of servants who arranged the chairs, placed the palms, and hung silver chains to separate the musicians from the audience. The curtain of the little stage was lowered, but a murmur could be heard through the pretty drop painted by Maurice. Among the servants set to finish the costumes was the Duke's sly goddaughter. Every time the Duke passed she gazed at him and her lips trembled. She who was usually so pert and smiling worked with set lips.

"Ha, ha!" said one of the maids, "you must be in love, eh, Jeanette?"

"Let me alone, stupid, to do my work," said the young girl with tears in her eyes.

She had been waked the night before by the noise of opening doors, she had got up and seen her godfather talking to her father. The Duke said, "You must close your Inn early as possible, you must refuse everybody, except the Doctor from the Chateau, Count Styvens and four gentlemen with the Duke of Castel-Montjoie. I shall probably get here first."

"Ah! my God," the Innkeeper had murmured, "the Duke is going to fight, I know that.... If only nothing happens to you, sir."

"I need not say that I count on your discretion as on your devotion. Have your best bedroom ready to receive one or the other of the adversaries and put yourself at the absolute command of the Duke de Castel-Montjoie. Au revoir. Try not to let your daughter know anything about this, and say nothing to her; but I know that even if she discovered she would not give us away. Au revoir!"

As soon as the door closed Jeanette ran to her father, bare-footed, her hair flying, just as she had jumped out of bed.

"Great Heavens!" said the Innkeeper, "you were listening."

"Yes, I was listening, I heard; I will prepare the room, but it shall be for the other!"

"Do you know who the other is?"

"No," she said quickly.

"Do you know why they are fighting?"

"How should I know?" she demanded.

She did know, however. However she sat mute under the gibes of the other servants.

Albert had returned with his mother, who seemed gayer, happier than usual. Esperance went at once to speak to her and was enthusiastically congratulated on her superb bearing.

The Countess kissed Esperance whose eyes were filling with tears, and she kissed the Countess's hands with so much emotion that the lady raised the blonde head, saying tenderly, "No, no, you must not cry! We must love each other joyfully. I have never seen my son so happy, I should be jealous if I loved him less. See, dear, I want to give you these jewels myself; I believe that they are going to suit you very well."

She clasped a magnificent collar of pearls around the young girl's neck. Esperance could not refuse them. She thanked the lovely lady affectionately.

"My father will tell me what to do," she thought.

Lunch was an hour earlier as the fete was to begin at half-past two. "Heavens," said Mme. Styvens with perturbation, "I shall never be ready."

Esperance left her, happy to escape from her torturing thoughts. "Deceit, deceit to this good woman!" Albert was waiting to lead her back. He admired his mother's gift, and spoke to her gently.

"It is just the tint of your skin," he said, "that gives these pearls their beautiful lustre. They ought not to flatter themselves that it is they who embellish you!"

All this was added anguish for the girl, his mother's kindness, Albert's gay confidence, and this fete which was, soon to begin, this fete where she must show herself publicly with him whom she loved so that she would die for him, with him who loved her more than life! She repulsed with horror the ideas that came crowding into her brain. If the Chateau should burn. If she should fall down the staircase and break a leg; if Albert should be taken ill and die within the hour.... If ... if ... and a million visions raced through her brain as she went back to the Tower of Saint Genevieve. But never once did the Duke appear as a victim of any of these misfortunes which her brain was conjecturing up so busily.

Lunch was a bit disorganized. The Duke avoided looking at Esperance. The sight of that child who loved him filled him with such emotion that he was afraid of betraying himself. The Countess de Morgueil, annoyed at seeing the two men she had sought to embroil talking together in the most courteous fashion, started to sharpen her claws once more.

"What a beautiful collar, Mlle. Darbois; this is the first time that you have worn it, isn't it? Count, I compliment you!"

"Mme. Styvens has just given it to me." The Duke understood the embarrassment the child felt—not yet eighteen, and forced to extricate herself from nets set by such expert hands as best she could.

At half-past two the great hall was crowded by women vying with each other in their beauty. It was a magnificent sight! Xavier Flamand went to his stand to conduct the orchestra.

He was heartily applauded and the spectacle commenced. More than two thousand people had come together for the fete. The hall could only accommodate eight hundred. Other chairs had been placed on the terrace. The tableaux began. The society assembled, appreciated a form of art which is pleasing and not fatiguing, which charms without disturbing.

The tableau of Andromeda was frantically applauded. The men could not admire enough the suppleness of Esperance's lovely body, the whiteness of her bare feet with their pink arches, the gold of her hair floating like a nimbus around the head of Andromeda, waved by the breeze as the stage turned. The women admired the Duke, so very beautiful in his gold and silver armour.

"How splendid the Duke is," remarked the Countess to Albert. "No one could have a prouder bearing. If I were in your place, my son, I should be jealous."

"Perhaps I am," said the Count, smiling.

The "Judgment of Paris" had the same success. Everyone waited for "Europa," and many were really disappointed. A hundred reasons were given for its withdrawal, and none of them the true one.

The philosopher and his wife were sitting with Genevieve behind the Styvens. Sometimes the Countess would turn around to compliment Francois, and the unfortunate man, so frank, whose whole life had never known deceit, suffered cruelly. There was an intermission to set the stage for the concert. The guests pressed around the Styvens's to express their admiration for Esperance, in the most dithyrambic, the most superlative terms. The concert began. Albert had to go upon the stage to play the Liszt duet with Esperance. He begged Francois Darbois to take his place beside his mother.

When the curtain went up after the quartette of "Rigoletto," Esperance and Albert were seated on the long piano stool. Loud applause greeted them. The Duke was talking to Maurice in the wings and seemed a little nervous. He envied Albert at that moment for his superiority as a musician. When they finished, a great tumult demanded an encore, but Esperance had come to the end of her strength.

As the public continued to applaud, Maurice and the Duke came forward to see why they did not raise the curtain. Esperance looked at the Duke.

"Oh! no, please do not raise the curtain; my heart is beating so fast."

Albert and the Duke supported her gently and she leaned upon them, her pretty head bending towards the Duke.

"I feel confused."

And she closed her eyes, afraid of giving herself away. Once more in the air and she began to feel better. She breathed the little flask of ether that the Doctor held under her nose.

"This poor heart is always making scenes. Ah! dear Count, you will have to set that in order."

The Duke had moved away. Annoyed by the insistence of the public, he told Jean Perliez to announce that Mlle. Darbois needed a little rest, and presented her compliments to the audience and excused herself from replying to the encoring. This was a real disappointment. There had been such enthusiasm for the two fiances, an enthusiasm well-earned by the inspired execution of "Orpheus," that the attitude of this elite audience was a little indifferent to the artists who concluded the concert. The hall was half empty and several artists were too offended to appear.

Esperance went to her room with her mother and Genevieve, begging the Count to return to his mother.

"Your mother will be anxious, and my father can not reassure her, because he does not himself know the symptoms of this slight illness. Tell them that I will rest for a quarter of an hour and then join you at my flower booth."

When she was left alone with Genevieve she drew her friend to her.

"My dear little sister, I cannot tell you the joy that pervades every part of my being. In an hour it will be over! My father will talk with Albert and I shall be free! free!"

"Poor boy," sighed Genevieve.

"Oh! yes, I am ungrateful to his great devotion, but I should be false to myself and to you, Genevieve, if I told you that the idea of his despair greatly troubles me. I know that every one about me regrets the breaking off of this marriage, and still I don't care. You all admire the Duke, but you blame him a little. I know that, but that is all submerged and forgotten in my great love. When I reason as I do now, I recognize at once the horrible storm I am causing, and yet I cannot feel sad. I find all sorts of excuses for myself, and cast back all the responsibility on Fate."

She was silent an instant.

"Do you think it will take vengeance?"

Mlle. Frahender came in.

"What will take vengeance?"

"Fate."

"My dear child, what is called Fate is simply the law of God."

"Then if God is just he will not avenge himself, for what has happened is not my fault."

The old lady looked at the young girl very tenderly.

"My dear child, do not get into the habit of throwing the responsibility of your actions upon others. Certainly we are not responsible for events, but we can almost always choose the way to meet them. Only, some flatter their passions and refuse to assert themselves against them! This weakness opens the door to all other concessions, and then it becomes difficult to make a loyal examination of our conscience."

"Is that my case?" asked the young girl with some anxiety.

"Perhaps," replied Mlle. Frahender, frankly.

"Oh! little lady, be kinder to me, I am so happy that I cannot believe such happiness comes from troubled waters.... And I swear to you that my heart is loyal."

The old lady kissed her charge, but her smile was sad. Esperance was now ready to go to her flower stall. A pretty dress, toned like a pigeon's breast, a round neck with a tulle collar, a wide girdle fastened with a bunch of primroses, a flapping hat of Italian straw tied with two narrow ribbons under her chin, created a delightful effect and a ravishing frame for her lovely face. When she passed lightly on her way to her booth, she caused quite a sensation. The Duke, Count Albert, Maurice and Jean Perliez were waiting for her. A crowd followed in her wake.

The Duke and Count had the same longing to see her, to be with her up to the last moment! They understood each other at that instant, and each outdid the other in courtesy. Albert was the first customer, passing a thousand francs for a primrose from her belt. The Duke made the same bargain. The girl's fingers trembled as she handed him the flower. Albert felt a choking feeling in his throat. The crowd pressed round. A German offered ten thousand francs for a flower which the young girl had put to her lips. At last Albert could work off some of his emotion. He repulsed the German.

"There is nothing more for sale, sir. I have just bought everything for fifty thousand francs."

The German would have protested, but he was pushed back by the crowd and landed at a distance.

"That was well done!"

"I did not know that he could be so impulsive."

"He was quite right."

"The poor people of the Duchess will become landholders!"

And the crowd scattered, making many comments on the way. Albert was soon surrounded, as everybody wanted to shake hands with him. The Duke had stepped back behind the booth. Esperance came out with Genevieve and Mlle. Frahender. He stopped beside her a moment.

"I love you."

"Oh, thank you."

"Forever, I hope!"

Then, as he saw that the Count was still surrounded and that Esperance would not be able to make her way to him, he offered her his arm.

"Let me take you to Count Styvens, who cannot extricate himself!"

With the help of Jean and Maurice, he dispersed the guests and led Esperance to her fiancee. At that moment anyone who had suspected the Duke of intentions to flirt with the plighted girl, must have abandoned their idea; and the motive of the duel, which was to bring one of these two perfect gentlemen to his death, became more and more obscure.

Count Styvens saw the girl coming to him on the Duke's arm, and he did not suffer from the sight; his suffering for the last two days had been too extreme to feel upset by any increase. He took Esperance to the door of the Tower.

"You were lovelier than ever before."

He kissed her fingers devotedly. The young girl felt a tiny tear fall like a terrible weight on her hand. He lifted his head quickly, looked fixedly at Esperance with a look of such goodness and faith, that she felt suddenly guilty and bent her head. The Count shook hands cordially with the philosopher.

"Do not forget," the elder man said to him, "that I want to have a little talk with you; it is more than a wish, it is a duty."

"I also have a serious duty to attend to," replied the young Count. "Excuse me if I have to keep you waiting."



CHAPTER XXVIII

Albert went immediately to his mother, who was taking tea with the Princess. He embraced her with such tenderness that she was astonished at his ardour. The Princess held out her hand.

"Do not wait too long to realize your happiness, Albert. You know how all your friends will rejoice with you."

He kissed her hand again, and went to join his two seconds at the gate of the kitchen garden.

The crowd had all dispersed to catch the last train.

The meeting at the "Three Roads" was for seven. They saw the Duke de Castel-Montjoie from a distance. He had had some difficulty in making his escape, having had to help his mother, the Duchess, with the last farewells. He bowed to the Count and led the way by a little door to the inn stable. He was carrying two sets of swords, done up in two cases of green cloth.

The Duke and his seconds were already there. Only the Doctor had not arrived. Morlay-La-Branche and Albert bowed to each other and got ready.

The little bowers, where the habitues of the inn often ate their midday meals, served them as dressing-rooms. The Doctor arrived out of breath, with the information that he had not been able to get a confrere and would have to serve both sides. The umpire, in company with the seconds, chose an alley of proper dimensions.

The adversaries were placed opposite, sword in hand. The Duke de Castel-Montjoie touched the points of their swords and said, "Go!"

The conditions of the duel were very strict. The first round should last three minutes, should neither of the adversaries be touched.

"Halt!" cried the Duke de Castel-Montjoie.

One minute was allowed them to breathe.

"Go," said the umpire, again joining the sword tips.

This time Albert made a furious drive against the Duke. There was a moment of suspense. The Duke did not give way. His arm shot out and the unfortunate Count turned completely round and fell. Charles de Morlay's sword had pierced beneath the right arm pit, entering the lung. The blood streamed from the wounded man's mouth. The Doctor and the seconds carried him into the room which Jeanette had prepared. The Duke, sorely moved, followed them. Albert saw him and held out a hand which the Duke pressed gently, bending his head. The Count signed to the seconds to withdraw.

"I was wrong, Duke," he murmured. "My love had blinded my wisdom with the heavy mask of egoism. On the threshold of eternity the truth seems clearer. Forgive me, De Morlay, as I forgive you."

He choked. The Doctor came forward. The Duke, as pale as the dying man, pressed that loyal hand for the last time, and withdrew.

In her own room Esperance had just waked with an anguished cry.

"What is the matter with you?"

"I ... I ... I do not know ... a catastrophe ... where is my father?"

"In his room, and...."

At that very moment Maurice knocked at the door, and before they had time to answer him, he entered. His face was distorted with grief.

"A catastrophe, a catastrophe!" repeated Esperance, at sight of him.

"Get up, put on a wrap, put something on your head, and come, come quickly! A carriage is waiting for us!"

"A catastrophe, a catastrophe! Albert? the Duke?..."

"Albert!" he answered brusquely. "Come quickly! He wants to see you before...."

The words died in his throat.

He helped his cousin and led her rapidly to the carriage. Esperance was gasping with anguish.

"Tell me, Maurice, tell me."

But the young man could not answer. He knew only that Albert was mortally wounded. He had been waiting a few paces from the Inn to see the duellers come out. The Duke de Morlay-La-Branche and Castel-Montjoie appeared first, and as they were talking to the young man, the Marquis de Montagnac came out precipitately.

"I beg you," he said to Maurice, "to fetch the Count's fiancee. He wants to see her before his mother knows."

And Maurice had departed in hot haste.

As soon as they reached the Inn, Esperance jumped to the ground. Jeanette, who had kept a constant watch, ran along ahead of her and without a word showed her the door of the room where Count Albert lay dying. The Doctor stopped her.

"Very gently," he said.

But Albert had felt the presence of his dearly loved. He raised himself a little, holding out his great arms to the young girl.

"Come to me, my love, do not be afraid. I will never hold you again in these arms that frighten you. Listen carefully. I have only a few minutes to live! No one knows the real reason of my quarrel with the Duke.... You may have thought that it was about you. I swear to you," he laid stress on the word, "I swear to you that it was nothing to do with you!"

His glazing eyes cleared for an instant, illuminated by the beauty of his falsehood.

"Marry the Duke, he is charming ... he ... he is loyal ... but do not abandon my mother; she will have only you!"

Two red streams trickled from the corners of his mouth. Esperance on her knees with her hands crossed on the bed, watched the blood run down on the face that had grown paler than the pillow. Her tears blinded her, and she shook as with an ague. Albert ceased breathing for an instant. The Doctor, who was watching closely from the end of the room, came near and gave him a dose of chlorate of calcium to stop the hemorrhage; then at a sign from Albert, withdrew again.

"Promise me," said the young man, "that you will always keep this necklace!"

"Albert, don't die! I will love you! I do love you! Have pity! I will always wear the necklace. You shall unfasten it every evening and clasp it every morning! Do not die! Do not die! I am your fiancee, to-morrow I will be your wife! You must life for your mother, for me!"

The door opened and the Countess, suddenly awakened, entered with the Baron van Berger and the Duke de Castel-Montjoie.

"Mother, dear mother, forgive me.... I leave you Esperance, who will take my place with you. Forgive the Duke de Morlay the pain he has caused you. Our quarrel was so deep, we could only settle it by arms. It was I, I, who precipitated matters. The Duke acted like an honourable gentleman. Oh! do not weep, mother, do not weep!"

He raised his hand painfully to wipe with trembling fingers the tears burning the beautiful eyes that had already wept so much.

The Chaplain from the Chateau entered the room, bearing the Holy Sacrament. He was accompanied by the Dowager Duchess, the Prince and Princess of Bernecourt. A solemn hush quieted the sobs of the two women. The priest bent over the couch of the dying man. The Count summoned all his strength to receive the extreme unction, then, transfigured by his faith, he sat up, extending his arms. The two women threw themselves trembling into the open arms, which closed upon them in the last struggle of life. They remained there, imprisoned, not knowing that the soul had fled.

A terrible cry shook these souls sunk down in grief. Esperance shrieked, "These arms, these arms, loosen these arms which are strangling me ... Deliver me, deliver me from these arms ... I am choking...."

They had some difficulty in freeing her. Her pupils dilated by terror, she was hardly able to breathe. The Doctor did not disguise his anxiety.

"Save her, Doctor," said the Countess Styvens, "save my daughter. My son is now with God; he sees me, he waits for me, but I must obey his last wish."

They carried Esperance away unconscious, without tears, without movement, almost without life. Francois, who had just arrived with his wife, learned of the frightful tragedy and received in his arms the poor unconscious cause of the drama. Mme. Darbois did not wish to leave her daughter, but the philosopher insisted, until she could not refuse, that she should go back to the Countess Styvens.

When the professor arrived at the Chateau he found the Duke de Morlay at the gate waiting for tidings. At sight of Esperance unconscious, her head fallen back on her father's breast, he jumped on the step of the victoria.

"What more has happened?" he asked panting.

"The Doctor will be here in a few minutes. He will tell you...."

The carriage drove on to the Tower of Saint Genevieve. The Duke took the poor figure in his arms and carried her up to her room, followed by Francois Darbois, broken by sorrow. Genevieve was waiting feverishly for the return of Maurice and Esperance. She showed the Duke where to lay Esperance. He stretched the slender creature on her bed. Her eyes were open, but she recognized no one. The rigidity of her expression frightened the Duke, and he bent in terror to listen to her breathing. A faint burning breath touched his face.

The Doctor declared that he could give no decision at that moment, and ordered them to leave her to sleep.

"She must not be left for a second," he said. "Two people must watch so that she need never be left alone."

The Duke kissed the limp little hand, and recoiled—his lips touched her engagement ring. As he went out he met the Countess Styvens and hardly recognized her, so terribly was she changed. She stopped him.

"Do not leave. I know from my son that it was he who provoked you. The cause of your duel is a secret that I shall never seek to know. May God pardon my son and free you from all remorse. I go to my daughter, all I have left to love and protect."

It was evident that the noble woman was making a great effort; the last words of her son were still ringing in her brain.

De Morlay knelt and watched the Countess disappear into the room.



CHAPTER XXIX

The Doctor declared that evening that Esperance had congestion of the brain, and that specialists who were sent for from Paris confirmed the diagnosis. The Dowager would not hear of having her taken away. The Tower of Saint Genevieve was put entirely at the Darbois's disposal. Twos sister were sent for, and Jeanette volunteered to do the heavy work. All the other servants were forbidden to approach the Tower.

The Countess Styvens, accompanied by the Duke de Castel-Montjoie, the Prince and Princess de Bernecourt, and the Baron van Berger, had taken the body of her son to be buried in the great family mausoleum which she had raised to the memory of her husband at her country place of Lacken.

Maurice and Genevieve were greatly relieved when they learned that the Countess had not remained. In her crises of delirium Esperance talked and talked....

"Albert, no, no, I do not love him ... I love the Duke.... Yes, he saved my life, but my father is going to tell him.... I cannot keep this collar.... It is cold, cold, it strangles me, I am stifling.... I am going to die.... Yes, Albert, you shall clasp the chain every morning ... and every evening.... No, my head is not too low, I can see the beauty of Perseus better. He is coming?... He is coming to cut off the long arms that hold me.... The blood, there, the blood running slowly!... No, Albert, do not die, I will love you, the Duke will go!..."

In spite of her trusting confidence, the poor mother must have come to wonder and perhaps to understand.

When Esperance regained consciousness the worst danger was over. Only Genevieve and Mlle. Frahender had heard the complete revelation.

Jeanette knew too, but Genevieve, who understood that she was there to keep the Duke informed, found her very docile and repentant and did not send her away. The Countess, to whom they had sent a daily bulletin for three weeks, found that Esperance, if not cured, was at least on the way to convalescence. She would still pass many hours when she failed to recognize people. A kind of coma took possession of her every now and then and kept her for days together in a kind of lethargy.

The season was getting late, and all the house guests had left. The Dowager Duchess did not wish to return to Paris, although her son, who had become a deputy as she wished, invited her to come and stay with him. The Prince de Bernecourt had had to once more take up his post, but his wife had stayed to keep her friend company, and because she loved the "little Darbois," as she called her. The Duke de Morlay was visiting friends whose Chateau was about an hour's journey away. He came every day for news from the Duchess, and from his goddaughter Jeanette.

A month went by. The young girl, now convalescent, was strong enough to be moved.

"We will take her to Penhouet for a month," said Francois Darbois's note to the Countess, "and when she is quite cured we will send her to you in Brussels."

The Duke was in despair at the idea of hearing that Esperance was to go away. He complained to Maurice whom he saw every day, "Can I not see Esperance?"

"Yes, but only for a few seconds," said the young painter. "I believe that you will have to wait several months before you can renew your love. She is convalescent, but not cured. Here is a proposal for you: I am going to marry Mlle. Hardouin in two months. Come to our wedding. Your presence will seem quite natural, for you have treated me as a friend. I am very much attached to you and I am sure that my cousin will be very happy with you when you are married."

"But will she be well in two months?"

"The Doctor assures us that she will be quite herself, and it is by his advice that we have set that date for our marriage."

"Do you think Mlle. Hardouin would accept me as a witness?"

She will be delighted, and I thank you. Genevieve has no relations except her elder sister, who brought her up."

"I hope that this marriage will recall Esperance's promise to her. Meantime I shall go to Italy for about the two months. Will you see if I may say good-bye to her?"

"I will go now."

He was soon back again.

"My cousin expects you."

It was more than a month since the Duke had seen Esperance. He was painfully shocked by the change in her pretty face. She looked hardly real. Her eyes were enormous. Genevieve and Mlle. Frahender were with her.

"Here is the Duke de Morlay-La-Branche who has come to say good-bye to you."

Esperance turned her eyes towards the Duke.

"It is a long time since I have seen you," she said simply.

And her voice sounded like the tone of a distant harp.

"You have been very ill!"

"I have been very ill, I believe, but I cannot remember very well. I feel as if I had had heavy blows in my brain; sometimes I hear dreadful calls and then everything is quiet again. And then sometimes I see a piece of a picture, no beginning, no end, sometimes horrible, sometimes lovely. Why, now I remember," she spoke gently with a charming smile, "that you are part of all my visions, but I do not know any more how, or why.... And Albert, where is he? Why does he not come? He must come and undo the collar.... Ah! my God, my God, I am wandering you see, nothing is clear yet."

She raised her arms.

"My God, my God, have pity on me or take me at once. I do not want to lose my mind!"

She took the Duke's hand.

"Say you are not sorry that you loved me?"

"I love you always!"

She clapped her hands with a silvery laugh, "Genevieve, Genevieve, he loves me still."

And she hid her head on the young girl's arm. Maurice led the Duke away, overcome. He looked questioningly at the painter.

"No, she will not be light-headed long, the Doctors all agree about that, but her memory will have to come back by degrees a little at a time. She recognized you. She remembered her love and yours. That is a great step. Her youth, her love, and time will be, I believe, certain restorers."

The Duke left soon after they had taken Esperance away.

In Belgium the Countess had prepared for her beloved daughter. This beautiful woman of forty, so charming, so handsome in her mauve mourning, had already become an old woman whose movements were ever slow and sad. Her back was bent, from constantly kneeling beside her son's grave. Her black clothes reflected the deeper gloom of her expression. And to those who had seen her a few months before, she was almost unrecognizable.

Poor little Esperance regained her health very slowly. Her mind seemed entirely clear only on one subject, the theatre. Little by little she remembered everything connected with her art. She repeated with Genevieve and Jean Perliez the scenes they had given at the Competition. She worked hard on Musset's On ne badine pas avec l'amour; then busied herself with preparations for her friend's marriage. She did not know that the Duke was to be a witness.

"But," she would often object, "you must have two witnesses, and you have only one."

"I have two," said Genevieve, "but you must guess the name of the second."



CHAPTER XXX

The wedding, solemnized in the little church of Sauzen, at Belle-Isle-en-Mer, was very private. Maurice had for witnesses his uncle, Francois Darbois, and the Marquis de Montagnac, with whom he had become great friends. Doctor Potain and the Duke de Morlay-La-Branche were witnesses for Genevieve. The Dowager Duchess and the Princess de Bernecourt were present. The Countess Styvens had been ill for a month and could not leave Brussels. She sent a magnificent present of diamonds and pearls to Genevieve, who was filled with joy. The Duchess gave the young bride a splendid silver service, and the Princess brought with her some beautiful lace. Genevieve had attached herself very strongly to the first of these sweet women, and Maurice had made a conquest of the Princess by painting her an admirable portrait.