Isidore and his quondam guide were both glad to meet again. Cadet and his doings were instantly and utterly forgotten, and de Beaujardin could not help being pleased to find that the Canadian had taken so much interest in him that he already knew from the inquiries he had made all about the young soldier's movements, his wound, and other incidents of the past year. His request that Isidore would honour his humble dwelling with a visit was so pressing that the latter consented to do so, and, sending his servant forward to prepare for his arrival somewhat later at Quebec, he accompanied Boulanger and his wife to their cottage, which stood at some little distance from the road. Great was Bibi's anxiety to do honour to their noble guest, and not less great her delight at the commendations he bestowed, not only on the order and tidiness of her little menage, but also on her three chubby little children, who, notwithstanding divers and sundry private injunctions to the contrary, would occasionally come to the front and gaze open-mouthed and awestruck at so uncommon a visitor. At length Isidore rose to pursue his journey; Boulanger would fain have accompanied him, but this he would not permit, and, after taking the Canadian's directions for regaining the road by a bridle path through the wood in which the cottage was situated, he bade adieu to the honest couple and galloped away.

The ground was more broken than he had expected, and he was soon obliged to rein up his horse. As he did so he thought he heard a rustling in the underwood at no great distance, but it was not until the same thing had occurred two or three times that the thought crossed his mind that some one might be following him. Yet, after all, it might be nothing more than a stray lynx or some such animal, though it seemed strange that it should move when he moved and stop when he stopped. At length he gained the road, and would probably have forgotten the incident altogether had he not accidentally cast a look behind him, when he saw a dark figure amongst the trees just at the point where he had quitted the wood. It disappeared, however, almost instantly, leaving Isidore in some doubt whether it might not have been Boulanger, who, notwithstanding his expressed wish, might possibly have desired to see him safely on the road. At all events he saw no more of it, and riding on soon found himself once more within the great Canadian fortress.

In the evening he paid a visit to Madame de Rocheval, when he learned that that lady intended to embark for France in about a fortnight, taking Marguerite with her, and there was some talk of the possibility of his going by the same vessel. He did not remain long, however, but promised to call again the next day. On the following afternoon he paid his friends a more lengthened visit, and, at his request, Marguerite presently sat down to the harpsichord, as she had been used to do of old, to play to him some music she had recently received from France, and amongst these were some canzonets and other vocal pieces which she begged Isidore to sing.

Those who should best understand these matters say that the tenor is the most common voice with men. It may be so, but certainly the rarest of all voices met with in perfection is the tenor of that marvellous enchanting quality that thrills the very soul of the listener with its heavenly vibrations. Such a voice was that of Isidore de Beaujardin, and the instruction he had received from the best masters at Paris enabled him to use it with uncommon taste and skill. He was just concluding an air of Stradella's, in which the melody and instrumentation alike were perfect, and in which a simple yet stately grandeur alternated with the most touching plaintiveness, when he became aware that some one near to him was sobbing violently. It was not Marguerite, that was certain, though a tear did just then drop on the hand that touched the harpsichord so charmingly. He turned in some surprise, and there kneeling beside him, with her face buried in her hands, he beheld a young girl whom, although her features were concealed from him, he recognised at once; it was Amoahmeh. Even as Isidore ceased, the girl's emotion utterly overpowered her, and she burst into an uncontrollable flood of tears. Marguerite rose hastily, while at the same moment Madame de Rocheval entered the room, and with the assistance of a domestic they carried Amoahmeh to an adjoining apartment, where, as Isidore could plainly hear, the strange and distressing paroxysm continued unabated notwithstanding every effort to soothe and calm the troubled spirit.

Presently Marguerite returned. "It is a most singular thing," said she. "This poor Indian girl was found in an exhausted and fainting state on the steps of our house last evening some time after you had left. Madame de Rocheval had her brought in and attended to, but when she revived and had somewhat recovered we found that she had evidently lost her reason. 'Some one,' she said, 'had told her where they were, but that she had forgotten, and had come to pray of him to tell her once again.' We could not understand what she meant. Madame de Rocheval sent for the doctor to consult him as to what could be done for her, but we suddenly missed her, and saw no more of her until she reappeared just now in this strange way."

"Poor child!" exclaimed Isidore, greatly moved. "She is no stranger to me; indeed, once at least, if not twice, I have owed my life to her. But it is a long story, and I must not keep you from a holy duty. To-morrow you shall hear all. In the meantime I know it is not needful for me to commend this unfortunate and afflicted one to your compassionate care."

On reaching his apartments, Isidore found that a courier had just arrived from Montreal with despatches, accompanied by the most urgent orders that he should carry them to Paris without delay. A ship appointed to sail from Quebec on the following morning was even indicated to him as the one in which he was to take his passage without fail. This was particularly annoying under all circumstances, and at first Isidore was inclined to demur, or even to refuse compliance; but on a little reflection he saw that for many reasons this was not to be thought of, and he accordingly decided to carry out his orders. On the following morning he was an early visitor at Madame de Rocheval's, and his first inquiry was after poor Amoahmeh. To his amazement he learnt that the doctor who had been sent for on the preceding day had succeeded, though with much difficulty and after a long time, in allaying the girl's excitement, and that she had then dropped into a deep sleep, apparently from sheer exhaustion. She had awoke that morning calm and quiet, and the doctor, who was with her at the time, had gradually, and to his extreme astonishment, discovered that her reason, which had in fact given way two or three years previously amid the horrors of an Indian raid, had partially if not entirely returned. The strangeness of all around her and her inability to recollect any recent events had, however, plainly begun to distress her, and the doctor, fearing a relapse, had given the strictest injunctions that only one person, namely, Madame de Rocheval, should on any account be permitted to see her. With this and other precautions he was not without hope that her recovery might be ultimately insured, and he attributed it entirely to the strong emotion and subsequent revulsion of feeling caused by the power and pathos with which the young soldier had given the soul-stirring and touching melody of the great master.

It was a source of the liveliest satisfaction to young de Beaujardin to be able to look forward to Amoahmeh's complete restoration to reason, and he could only regret that he could not be allowed to see her and express his good wishes. His last hours at Quebec, however, were devoted to making arrangements with Boulanger to receive her under his roof as soon as she should be well enough to be removed, which the doctor hoped would be the case before Madame de Rocheval's departure. Finally Isidore took leave of his friends, and with the warmly expressed wish that he and Marguerite might soon meet again in Old France—a wish which she echoed with her heart, if not with her lips—he bade adieu once more to Quebec.



PART II.

THE LETTRE DE CACHET.



THE LETTRE DE CACHET.

CHAPTER I.

The pleasant spring-time had returned once more. Far away in New France the snows that had mantled the ground for months were disappearing fast. In Old France the flowers already decked the meadows and grassy banks, the blossoms had opened, and the song-birds had begun to break the dreary silence that had reigned in the hedgerows and the woods, for in those days Old France could let the little warblers sing without at once devoting them to eke out the rustic meal. Perhaps in all the west of France there was no tract of country in which this season was more peculiarly attractive, or could present a more charming landscape, than that overlooked from the terrace of the old Chateau de Valricour. It was, however, of the class not appreciated by those who hold that there is no real beauty, properly so called, except in rugged, wild, and romantic scenery. Here were no deep ravines, no dark glens, no bold scarped rocky heights or frightful precipices. Salvator Rosa would have turned away, whilst Claude would have desired to linger long to catch some new effect of bright light gradually softening away in clear yet mellowed distance. There was no eminence that could be dignified by the name of a mountain, yet there were hills in one part of the horizon, and slight undulations in the middle ground sufficient to prevent any idea of monotony. The fields were green, the trees sufficiently abundant, and a not inconsiderable stream winding about, and sometimes losing itself for a while behind a rising ground topped by a quaint old windmill, gave to the scene variety and life. Homesteads and cottages of all sorts and sizes dotted the landscape. One or two edifices there were, moreover, of more pretentious dimensions, evidently the residences of the wealthier seigneurs, whilst in the extreme distance, flanked by large patches of woodland, the eye rested on a magnificent chateau covering many and many a rood, the princely abode of the most noble and most respected Marquis de Beaujardin.

There was one circumstance, however, connected with this landscape which, although common to all parts of France in those days, played a more than usually important part in this particular district, and yet it was one which a mere stranger looking down from the terrace would never have suspected. Few of the tenements could claim to be anything better than mere farm-houses. Yet every second building you came upon was a chateau—yes, a veritable chateau, the actual abode of some seigneur of the old noblesse of France, whose name might be like enough to call up the memory of some illustrious deed done in the old chivalric days of France. The country literally swarmed with chateaux and with nobles. Do you see yon rickety, tumble-down building, scarce big enough for a good-sized family? That is the chateau of Monsieur le Comte de Joliment, not one of your new nobles, who have become such in virtue of some one or other of the thousands of royal patent places that conferred nobility on their upstart holders as a right. No; these latter gentry have fine salaries or pensions attached to their appointments; they are comfortable enough as to means, and profess not to care about pedigree or descent, though the old nobles hold themselves aloof and look down upon them as parvenus. The Count de Joliment would probably prefer starving to giving up even for a fat pension his rights over the miserable remnants of the old family estates that he can still call his own. Did not one of his ancestors fight by the side of Charles Martel himself at the battle of Tours? You may almost read something of the kind in the aristocratic bearing of the old noble, though the most liberal old-clothes-man would scarcely like to give twenty francs for the whole of the count's wardrobe, including those clod-hopping boots, but excluding, of course, the somewhat antiquated rapier which his rank gives him the privilege of wearing. "How does he manage to live?" you ask. Well, it is not so easy to say, as incumbrances in many quarters swallow up every sou of the slender rental. But then the count being a noble, is free from all the heavy taxes that crush his poor and wretched tenants; his tailor's bills are nominal, and as he exacts to the last ounce the seigneurial rights payable in kind, and enjoys besides the lordly privilege of keeping pigeons and rabbits, he manages to hold body and soul together. He does not trouble himself about the muttered curses of the commoners against him and his class, or dream of their taking shape some day in the hideous cry of "Down with the aristocrats! A la lanterne!"

The same picture, with a slight alteration here and there, will do equally well for some of the count's neighbours, such as the Marquis de Marcy, the Sieur de Vallancelles, and even the noble Duke de Hautbois, who is perhaps the most hopelessly impoverished of those who may cross your path in the course of the day's walk that separates the Chateau de Valricour from that of Beaujardin. Yes, but then Madame la Duchesse can claim the privilege of sitting on a tabouret in the royal presence, that is to say she could if there were such a personage, but the Duke is not married, wisely considering, perhaps, that a dozen young dukes (for all his progeny would have a right to the title) might make the whole thing look ridiculous, so when he dies there will happily be one poor noble the less instead of a dozen more for the despised Third Estate of the realm to hate and scowl upon.

It must by no means be supposed, however, that there is no other side to this strange picture. There are hosts of noble families whose means enable them to maintain a proper state, and to keep up the dignity of their ancient houses; and this, be it remembered, is in truth their only calling, for as a class or body the nobles had no influence or power in the Government of the kingdom. Nay, there is yet another set, so splendidly, so magnificently wealthy that the mind, accustomed to the more measured and sober scale even of the most princely establishments of modern days, can scarcely picture to itself the boundless extravagance which marked those of the age of Louis the Fifteenth and his successor, until the Revolution swept them away. Some great nobles there were whose landed revenues were sufficient to enable them to live in almost royal state. Then there were some who, having no landed property to squander, flocked to Paris or Versailles, and sought and found favour at the profligate court of "His Most Christian Majesty" (as the kings of France were styled), no matter by what base and scandalous means. These were lavishly rewarded, and obtained large incomes from the enormous grants and pensions given to them as court favourites and personal attendants on the king, not merely by thousands but even by millions of francs. These profligates cared not what they spent so long as they could outdo this or that rival in extravagance, by having fifty more guest chambers in their chateaux, or fifty more horses in their stables. If a day of reckoning did thrust itself upon them it was but a question of asking for another pension in addition to those they already held, or of obtaining at a nominal price a grant of crown domains, to be sold again for hundreds of thousands of francs. Truly there was but one thing that could match the flaunting wastefulness of the reigning favourites at court, and that was the hard condition, the intolerable poverty, of the despised commonalty.

Nevertheless, whilst the greater part of the old nobility of France came unmistakably under one or other of these extreme descriptions, there were to be found, in the country districts, some who were free alike from such boundless extravagance and such abject poverty. Of this small and exceptional class the Marquis de Beaujardin was a striking example. His naturally calm and unexcitable temperament had been still further disciplined by early habits of self-command, first as a scholar and subsequently as a soldier. Slow to apprehend the bearings of questions, he seldom failed, if he had time for consideration and reflection, to arrive at a right conclusion, and then he could be not only just but generous. Thus he had long since arrived at a fair judgment of the state of things in France, and keeping aloof from the court and its intrigues, added as little as might be to the terrible burdens which the laws of the land and the existing state of society inevitably laid upon the poorer classes around him. Had he followed his own inclination, he would from choice have kept as small an establishment at Beaujardin as Madame de Valricour did from necessity, but the marchioness was far too frivolous and fond of the world to give up what she could fairly claim as suitable to their exalted position. This was not unreasonable, and to this, within limits, the marquis did not demur; so the establishment at Beaujardin was kept up in a style fairly befitting their rank, but without needless ostentation.

Perhaps the marchioness, with her childish silliness of character, might not have found it so easy to prevail over her husband's firmness and good sense in such a matter, had she not been supported and counselled by the Baroness de Valricour, of whom, to own the truth, the marquis always stood in awe. Nobody knew this better than the clever and strong-minded lady herself; for the last twenty years, indeed, she had decided most questions that arose at the Chateau de Beaujardin, although the marquis not unfrequently regretted this when it was too late for him to recede from an over hasty concurrence. Now, however, the great aim of the baroness' life might be accomplished. Those were days when the inclinations of the persons really most interested were held of small account in family alliances, and if Madame de Valricour could only obtain a complete ascendancy over her weak sister-in-law, the success of her plan was certain. That ascendancy she had at last achieved, and the game seemed to be in her hands.

The return of Isidore to France had of course been the great event of the autumn, and the chateau had been even more than usually thronged with visitors during the six months that succeeded his arrival. Madame de Valricour had managed matters with her accustomed dexterity, and although she had not yet brought Isidore to the point of formally avowing himself as a suitor for the hand of Clotilde, she was satisfied that all was going right, and was too wary to spoil all by precipitancy. The baroness fancied she knew Isidore better even than he knew himself, and secretly rejoiced to find his visits to Valricour become more and more frequent, and his walks in the forest with Clotilde, accompanied by Marguerite for propriety's sake, more and more prolonged. At last she thought the pear was ripe, and she took a decided step in order to bring the affair to an issue. Let us see what came of it.



CHAPTER II.

Whether or not there was in that part of France a more charming view than that from the terrace of the Chateau de Valricour, there certainly was not in all France on that bright May morning a more happy pair than the two young people who sat side by side, each clasping the other's hand, in one of the pleasant trellised arbours which from either end of the terrace overlooked the pleasant scene. And yet, perhaps, those who think the beautiful in nature inconsistent with strongly marked and striking features, might consider that true happiness and prosperity, so called, could not co-exist with such intense excitement and such bewildering surprise as just then rendered Isidore and Marguerite for some minutes incapable of expressing what they felt.

"I can scarcely believe it possible. O Isidore! are you quite sure that there is no strange mistake in it all?"

"Nay, read for yourself, my darling one," he replied, once more unfolding the letter which he held in his hand, and quietly withdrawing the other to point to the words that had brought out the passionate declaration he had but just made to her.

"See here! After a few lines about my uncle Valricour, this is what my father says. You do not know him as well as I do, but you see he is not one to allow any silly notions about fortune or noble descent to stand in the way of what he believes to be right."

Marguerite took the letter, and though still trembling with excitement, managed to read as follows:

"And now, my dear son, I must allude to a very different matter. Madame de Valricour writes to me that you have lost your heart, and that although for reasons, which, she says, she quite understands, you have not made it known, she thinks it time that I should intervene. I think so too; and I do so the more willingly as I doubt not that your reticence and hesitation in this matter has arisen from a natural feeling that I might be opposed to your union with one who is not your equal in point of rank, and who will not, I fancy, bring you a sou in the way of marriage portion. Well, I will ease your mind at once. To you, and therefore to me, money can be no object. As an old soldier myself I might well be content to receive as my daughter-in-law even one who could boast of no higher title than that of a brave soldier's daughter; in any case, your wife will be the Marquise de Beaujardin, so, assuming that Madame de Valricour is correct in her supposition, I see no reason why I should go out of my way to thwart a son who has ever deserved my affection, and has proved himself likewise to be worthy of the name of a good soldier."

The letter dropped from her hands. "Isidore, Isidore! what have you done?" said she in a tone that had in it no trace of the delight he had anticipated. "O Isidore! your fond heart has blinded you. What shall I do? Isidore, you have brought ruin on your dear self, and all for me!"

Astonished and disconcerted at this unexpected outburst, Isidore would have endeavoured to calm her, but as he took her hand in his she uttered a slight cry, and on looking round he beheld Madame de Valricour standing only a few paces from them, regarding them apparently with speechless amazement.

However much the young marquis might have lost his self-possession when he and Marguerite were the only actors in the scene, the appearance of Madame de Valricour at once brought back his usual command over himself, although he certainly was somewhat puzzled at the blank expression of her face at that moment.

"I would apologise to you, my dear aunt," said he, "for allowing myself to be caught at such a very sentimental crisis, but that I know that it is to you and no one else that I owe my happiness at this moment, and——"

He stopped short, for the blank look had suddenly changed into one so fiercely angry that anything further in the way of complimentary speeches was not to be thought of, and a dead pause ensued.

"Leave us, Mademoiselle Lacroix!" cried Madame de Valricour vehemently. Marguerite hesitated, her reluctance to leave Isidore alone in so painful a dilemma, overcoming even her habitual deference to Madame de Valricour; but Isidore, who felt that he should be more free to speak or act if unembarrassed by her presence, quietly led her away from the spot. Then, after raising her hand to his lips, he returned to the baroness and addressed her thus—

"I am utterly at a loss to understand you, my aunt—you, to whom I was about to offer my warmest thanks for so kindly smoothing the way to my union with Mademoiselle Lacroix."

"I!" exclaimed the baroness, apparently forgetting her indignation for a moment in her amazement. "I! Who says this? It is false! There is some ridiculous mistake here—or rather some shameful trick. You have not dared, sir, to make the girl believe that——"

"Calm yourself, my good aunt," replied Isidore, interrupting her. "As for trick or deception, I shall not insult either you or myself by further noticing words spoken in a hasty moment. As for any mistake, you or my father must answer for that, if there is any. He tells me you have written to him on the subject, and he has expressed his approval of my choice."

"It is false, absolutely false!" exclaimed the baroness, passionately. "When—where has the marquis told you this? Show me the letter. It is a cheat which you would put both upon me and this girl. Show me the letter, I say!"

"If Madame de Valricour doubts my word," answered Isidore haughtily, "she will have to satisfy herself elsewhere. I am not in the habit of substantiating my assertions."

"I say again it is false," reiterated the incensed baroness, forgetting her usual caution. "I wrote to your father about you and Clotilde. Do you dare to tell me that he has bidden you to marry some one else? If you are not a base and unworthy trickster, then you must be the veriest idiot alive."

A single lens may not, perhaps, suffice to make an object visible, but place another in juxtaposition with it and suddenly all becomes clear and distinct. Isidore recalled the piteous words uttered by Marguerite as she dropped the letter, and the truth flashed across his mind at once.

Madame de Valricour had thrown herself into a chair as she concluded her tirade, for the collected way in which her nephew had at first listened to her, and his high and mighty air, seemed to belie any charge of duplicity at all events. But when she noticed the alarmed expression of his face, and the no less unmistakable change in his manner, she was on her feet again in a moment and was about to renew the attack, but he interrupted her.

"Pardon me, my aunt," said he, "it is worse than useless for us two to discuss this business. I am afraid I have made a mistake indeed, and one that is like enough to cause no little bitterness and trouble. Yet I do not regret it for one moment," he added, as he thought of the few loving words with which Marguerite had confessed her long-cherished affection for him. "Whatever you may think, my aunt, I have acted honestly and in good faith, and it will rest with my father to decide how all this is to end. I shall appeal to him at once. Nay, I beseech you, my good aunt," he continued, seeing the baroness about to break forth again, "let us not make things worse by useless altercation. With your permission I will relieve you of my presence, and will desire Jasmin to order our horses that I may return at once to Beaujardin."

Without giving Madame de Valricour time for any further comment, Isidore then bowed to her and withdrew.



CHAPTER III.

Isidore had scarcely quitted the terrace before he was accosted by Clotilde's maid, who begged him to come to her young mistress without delay, and he soon reached his fair cousin's boudoir. He found her trying to cheer up poor Marguerite, but not very successfully, it must be owned, for Clotilde's spirits were always of the highest, and her thoughtless raillery increased rather than allayed her friend's distress.

"Mercy on us!" she exclaimed as Isidore made his appearance. "If any one ever deserved the name of 'the knight of the rueful countenance' it is certainly my doughty cousin. Well, if men put on that dismal face when their lady-loves accept them, I shall certainly always say 'no' for their sakes, if not for my own."

"Nay, but, my dear, sweet cousin," said Isidore, "I entreat you to be serious for half an hour, or even for a few minutes, if you can. Has not Marguerite told you?"

"She has told me that you have fallen in love with her, and I suppose that mamma does not like it. I have not got further than that as yet, and I do not think that is anything so very, very awful."

"Not if that were really all, my dear cousin; but the baroness, it seems, had taken it into her head that I was in love with you. It is too absurd. Can you imagine anything so ridiculous?"

"I am infinitely obliged to you for your politeness, Monsieur de Beaujardin, in supposing it to be so very ridiculous that any one should fall in love with me. Why, there is my devoted cousin, the Duke de St. Menehould, who would make me his duchess any day, if I had but a million of livres for my dowry, to say nothing of the Sieur de Crillon, who declares he is dying for me, and would have married mo long ago, if mamma had not made up her mind that I should have my most uncivil cousin de Beaujardin. Dear me, only think, though, how dreadful it would have been if mamma had fancied I was in love with you!"

"Do, pray, be serious," replied Isidore. "Can you not see, Clotilde, that your mother is not one to be thwarted with impunity in any scheme she has formed. This affair may, if I cannot conciliate my father, prove fatal to my whole life's happiness, and, what is infinitely worse, to dear Marguerite's also."

"Isidore! Isidore!" exclaimed the latter, passionately, "do not think of me; I am only distressed and unhappy for your sake. If I can only save you from harm, I will do anything. O Isidore! I will give up everything, even your dear self, though I shall never cease to love you."

There was a pause as Isidore put his arm around her, as if to reassure her of his steadfastness, and gently kissed her forehead. Even Clotilde was subdued.

"I am afraid that you are right, and that it is a serious business after all," said she. "Mamma is ever either a good friend or a bitter enemy; but all must depend on my uncle, so do not lose a moment, my good cousin, but be off to Beaujardin at once. In the meanwhile I will do what I can to soothe mamma and comfort Marguerite. Yes, sir, although it is so very absurd to think of any one falling in love with me, I won't bear malice, but behave like a generous heroine to my odious rival here. There, off with you, and let us hear all about it as soon as you can."

The advice was obviously too sensible to be disregarded, and Isidore at once proceeded to summon his valet, Monsieur Jasmin, for the purpose of ordering the horses and packing up for the journey. In the corridor he came upon the very person he sought, and, perhaps somewhat curtly, gave him the needful directions.

News travels apace in such households, where there is often enough some scheming underling, who makes it his business to know everything about everybody. Monsieur Jasmin had long since satisfied himself that Mademoiselle Marguerite, and not Mademoiselle Clotilde, had won his young master's heart; he knew, moreover, that the baroness had set her heart on a union between the two families, and the rumour that there had been a scene between madame and the young marquis, and that Marguerite had fled to Clotilde's boudoir in tears, did not surprise him much. Nevertheless he affected to be astonished at so abrupt a departure, and, overdoing his part a little, as the most clever people sometimes do, he exclaimed—

"But, monsieur, it is impossible! Surely monsieur does not think of such a thing?"

Isidore had had to suppress much bitterness and vexation during his interview with the ladies; but little was needed to bring out his irritation pretty strongly, and Jasmin's opposition did it most effectually.

"Do as I bid you, insolence!" cried Isidore, turning angrily upon him, "and lose no time about it, unless you want me to chastise you for a meddling, impertinent cur." So saying he passed on, whilst the valet remained standing in the middle of the corridor chafing under this unexpected rebuff.

The very pink of courteous servility, aping to the utmost pitch the prevalent extravagance of courtesy, Monsieur Jasmin had ever been too adroit to bring on himself such a humiliation, and in the few months during which he had been in Isidore's service he had never even suspected his master to be capable of such rudeness even to a menial. He had not yet recovered from the shock when Madame de Valricour came sweeping along the corridor. He stepped back to allow her to pass, but instead of doing so, she stopped, and after looking steadily at him for a few moments, as if she were making up her mind about some contemplated step, she hastily desired him to attend her in the saloon. Jasmin bowed, and followed her.

When left to herself by Isidore, a few minutes' reflection had enabled the baroness to realise the exact position of affairs, and she had at once set about considering what course she would have to take if she would prevent her cherished scheme from being utterly overthrown. She knew Isidore's father well, and believed it quite possible that his affection for his son might outweigh any considerations founded on the mere absence of rank and fortune on the part of Marguerite, especially if he were once convinced that Isidore had plighted his word in the honest belief that he was acting in accordance with his father's wishes. Yes, that was the point she had to look to. She knew her own influence over the marquis, but it must be brought to bear strongly and without delay, and Isidore must, if possible, be prevented from forestalling her. All this was being weighed whilst her nephew was debating the matter with Clotilde and Marguerite. Having formed her resolution, the baroness had rung the bell, and ordered her coach to be got ready, saying that she desired to take an airing; she then hastened to equip herself for a journey. Coming upon Monsieur Jasmin, however, in the corridor a fresh thought struck her.

On reaching the saloon the lady paused awhile, and then addressed the valet thus—

"I have heard highly creditable accounts of the zeal and ability with which you discharge your duties, Monsieur Jasmin, and of your fidelity to your master."

The valet knew that this was not true; besides, even the overstrained euphuism of the day would not lead the proud Baroness de Valricour to speak thus to a mere valet—unless, indeed, she had some covert end in view. What did she want? That was the question.

Jasmin bowed, and answered with some common-place remark, expressing his obligations to madame for her good opinion.

"Monsieur de Beaujardin gives handsome wages, no doubt," was her next remark, "and you would not care to leave his service, I suppose?"

Jasmin certainly had no desire to exchange the liberal menage of Beaujardin for the scarcely disguised poverty of Valricour, but it was second nature with him to cringe and flatter: "I could not desire to quit so noble a family, except, indeed, for the service of so exalted and gracious a personage as the Baroness de Valricour."

"That is precisely what I wish, Monsieur Jasmin," was the prompt rejoinder. "To be brief, I believe Monsieur de Beaujardin allows you fifty louis a year. For special reasons I desire to engage you in my service, and I will give you double that amount."

However tempting the offer might seem, Jasmin happened to know that those who had the honour of serving Madame de Valricour were not unfrequently put to straits, from the difficulty of getting their wages paid at all, and at any other moment he would probably have declared that no amount could induce him to leave so noble a master as the young marquis; but he thought he saw clouds gathering over Isidore's head, and the little incident in the corridor was rankling in him.

"But, madame," said he, "what will be said abroad if I——"

"For the present, at least," replied the baroness, "I do not desire that it shall be known. You can still be valet to my nephew, and receive your wages from him too. Has Monsieur Jasmin never heard of such little arrangements in families where untoward circumstances have occurred to mar a good understanding?"

"Madame," said Jasmin, bowing, "I accept your offer. It is not for me to say more than that my doing so puts me under the necessity of carrying out, without question or scruple, any directions you may give me."

"Good," rejoined the baroness. "Monsieur de Beaujardin has offended, and even insulted me. I am going to the Chateau de Beaujardin, and I wish to reach it before he does."

Jasmin bowed again: "If monsieur's horse should unfortunately go lame," said he, suggestively, "I am afraid there will be nothing left in the stables for him to ride, if your ladyship takes the four horses."

"It is for you to see to that," replied the lady, sharply, for she did not relish the half sneer at the state of the Valricours' stables, nor the idea of Monsieur Jasmin's presuming upon his new position and becoming familiar. "For the rest," she added, "you will understand that I desire to be kept exactly informed of Monsieur de Beaujardin's movements and also those of——"

"Of Mademoiselle Lacroix," said Jasmin, filling up the pause.

"Yes; that is enough. Stay, here are twenty crowns on account of your wages."

With these words Madame de Valricour opened her escritoire and handed the money to Jasmin, who once more bowed low and retired. He had scarcely gone half the length of the corridor, however, before he was recalled by his new mistress. "There is one thing more," said she, as they re-entered the saloon; "it is a matter of much delicacy, but if I thought I could entirely rely on——"

Here the baroness stopped and seemed to hesitate. Jasmin, who under a show of servile obsequiousness noted every look, word, and gesture with unremitting keenness, thought that he detected in the lady's embarrassment an apprehension that she might compromise or commit herself too seriously by some communication she desired to make to him, and he hastened to remove her fears.

"Madame has the best security for my executing any task she may impose on me without any scruples on my part, as I have placed it in her power to deprive me at her pleasure of my engagement with Monsieur Isidore, as well as of that with which she has honoured me."

Perhaps Madame de Valricour had her own ideas as to who would lose most by an exposure of her schemes, nevertheless Monsieur Jasmin's little speech had its effect.

"In short, then," said she, "my nephew received yesterday a letter from the marquis, his father, concerning a family matter of interest to me. Monsieur Isidore has deeply offended me, and I do not choose to ask him to let me see the letter, but it is important that I should do so—in fact I wish to have this letter in my possession."

"The letter shall be in madame's hands before she leaves the chateau," replied the valet; and so ended this little supplementary conversation.

Monsieur Jasmin, who had hitherto considered Isidore's service rather a tame and monotonous one, had at last found occupation congenial to his taste, and he performed his task with the greatest readiness and ability. It was not until after the young marquis had twice ordered the horses to be brought round, and had been worked up into a state of impatience which would brook no further delay, that he was informed that his horse had gone dead lame. Determined not to be baffled in his purpose, and half suspecting that some trick was being put upon him—though his suspicion fell on the groom instead of the real delinquent—he expressed his intention of riding Jasmin's horse, and leaving that personage to follow on foot as he best could. This resolve might have answered had he acted upon it at once; but just as he was putting his foot in the stirrup the valet informed him that Mademoiselle Lacroix had a packet which she desired to send to the marquise. Should he go and ask her for it? The temptation to say a few more last words was too great. Isidore hastily re-entered the chateau, but only to hear from Marguerite that there must have been some mistake, as she had no commands at Beaujardin. In a towering rage Isidore once more descended the staircase, and on reaching the courtyard he would probably have carried out there and then his former threat of chastisement; but Monsieur Jasmin had taken good care to be absent, and his incensed master, anxious to lose no more time, was soon galloping away in the direction of Beaujardin.

He did not gallop far, however, for the horse he rode soon showed signs that something was amiss with him. Still Isidore urged him on, and the animal, which was of a noble breed, seemed to gather himself together, and for a time appeared to have recovered his powers, but it was of no use; they had gone just half-way when the creature suddenly broke down and could go no further. As he disengaged himself, Isidore muttered something not very complimentary to Monsieur Jasmin, for he began to suspect that the valet had something to do with his mishap. There was nothing for it, however, but to proceed on foot and endeavour to obtain another horse, if possible, at a farmhouse some distance further on. This he at last accomplished, but what with one delay and another it proved of no avail. When he reached the chateau, he learned that Madame de Valricour had arrived there nearly half an hour before him, and as he ascended the great staircase he met her coming down. She curtsied to him in the most polite manner, but there was an expression of triumph in her face which warned him to prepare for the worst.



CHAPTER IV.

"This is an impertinence, sir!" exclaimed the marquis angrily, as Isidore, without any announcement, entered the private apartment in which Madame de Valricour had just concluded her interview.

"My father," replied Isidore firmly, "there are times and circumstances which oblige us to lay aside all ceremony. At a moment like this the last thing I could desire is to offend you, but——"

"The circumstances, sir," answered the marquis, "are such as to make any want of respect on your part an additional insult, and you are mistaken if you think that you can thus presume on the forbearance I have too blindly shown towards you."

"I will not appeal either to your forbearance or your affection, sir, though I cannot forget either," answered Isidore, "because I know that you are just now unfairly prejudiced against me by Madame de Valricour."

"How dare you say this to my face, sir!" retorted the marquis with a vehemence very unusual in him. "You should know, sir, that your aunt is one who is utterly incapable of such conduct towards any person, and your ingratitude to one who has ever been most indulgent and affectionate to you makes your proceedings even more reprehensible. Begone, sir! I will not listen to you."

"Sir, I ask no favour of your kindness, but I demand it of your sense of justice that you listen to me, and do not condemn me unheard. I do not expect to be denied, merely because I am your son, a right I believe you accord even to the meanest of your servants."

For a moment or so the marquis made no reply. However blinded he might be by his anger, he could have no plausible reason for refusing this request.

"Well, sir," said he at last, "you have liberty to speak, but have a care that you make no more insinuations against your estimable aunt, and let us have no silly sentiment. We have to do with facts, and to these you will confine yourself. If you can disprove what Madame de Valricour alleges, so much the better for you, but that you cannot do. You have told her that I—yes, I—approved of your engaging yourself to this Marguerite Lacroix. Why, sir, if you had seen it in my own handwriting you would have hardly been justified in believing your own eyes, but you know, and knew, that I never wrote anything of the kind. I can scarcely command patience to speak of such an absurdity. Besides this, you have for a long time past been paying to your cousin a devotion so manifest that Madame de Valricour assures me it is the common talk, and I can share with her in her indignation at the humiliating position in which you have placed her unhappy daughter."

"Nay," rejoined Isidore, who felt almost inclined to laugh, notwithstanding his vexation, "this is really too absurd. I can not only vouch for it that Clotilde does not care for me, but that she knows I never dreamed of paying her any special attention. I can assure you that she is aware of the position in which Mademoiselle Lacroix and I stand in regard to each other, and heartily rejoices at it."

At this the marquis broke out more indignantly than ever. "What, sir! Do you dare to own this to my face? Your excellent aunt, though she could not altogether disguise her fears, evidently allowed her affection for you to deter her from accusing you of such effrontery, but it is now clear that there has been a secret understanding between you all to deceive her, and the falsification of my letter to you is a fitting climax to such behaviour."

"Falsification, sir!" retorted Isidore indignantly. "You are the only man living whom I would permit to use that word with impunity."

"I repeat the word," replied the marquis, sternly. "I cannot doubt, even if any other part of my letter could have been misunderstood, that I must have mentioned your cousin Clotilde's name in connection with this affair. To pretend the contrary is as impudent as it is absurd."

"It is a fortunate thing that I can at least prove to you that your letter not only did not mention my cousin's name, but that it left ample room for misconception," answered Isidore, feeling in his pocket for the all-important missive; "though I may add that to you alone, sir, would I condescend to attempt to clear myself of such an imputation."

The marquis started slightly, and regarded him with a look in which expectation seemed mingled with distrust. In vain, however, did Isidore search one pocket after another; the letter was not there.

"This is most annoying," said he at last; "I must have left it at Valricour."

"Of course," rejoined the marquis, sarcastically, "very unfortunate, indeed! Perhaps I can assist you in your search for the missing document, or at least as much of it as you incautiously and unwittingly left undestroyed." So saying he drew forth from a drawer in his writing-table and held out towards his son a small piece of paper. It was all burnt at the edges, and from the signature still just legible upon it, Isidore at once recognised it as a fragment of his father's letter to him. He might well be amazed and dumbfounded. A minute ago he had supposed the letter safe in his pocket, and relied on it for his justification; now a shred of it, charred and defaced, was produced against him, in mute but irrefragable proof that he had himself destroyed it to cover his own falsehood and deceit.

"I suppose, sir," said the marquis, "as you pretend to be so much astonished, that I must tell you that this little piece of paper was found in your chamber at the Chateau de Valricour. No, sir," he continued, more vehemently as Isidore attempted to speak, "I will not hear another word from lips already so basely, so vilely forsworn. Go! From this moment I disown you as my son. For the sake of others I will spare you any public degradation, and any punishment beyond the necessity of seeking your fortune henceforward as you best may, with no sympathy or aid from me beyond a small allowance which I shall cause to be remitted to you from time to time. For the rest, I have done with you."

The last words were scarcely uttered when Isidore found himself alone with his own reflections.



CHAPTER V.

For several days after the eventful scene at the Chateau de Beaujardin nothing particularly worth mentioning occurred either there or at Valricour; outwardly at least, matters seemed to have relapsed into their ordinary routine, just as some usually placid stream, after being swollen and agitated for a while by a sudden storm of wind and rain, subsides once more into its customary channel. The marquis, indeed, might seem somewhat more sedate and more taciturn than was his wont, and the marchioness possibly suffered herself to be looked upon by her female friends as very much to be pitied for some mysterious cause of anxiety she could not divulge for all the world. Madame de Valricour, however, betrayed not the slightest indication that anything was going or had gone wrong; on the contrary, she appeared more lively and amiable than usual, and treated Marguerite with peculiar affability and sweetness. But Clotilde, at all events, was not slow to perceive that both Marguerite and herself were watched much more closely than they had ever been before by Madame de Bleury, a decayed gentlewoman and distant relative of Madame de Valricour, who had for some years past lived at the chateau, and discharged the multifarious duties of housekeeper, chaperone, duenna, and private secretary to the baroness as occasion required. More than once during those few days Madame de Valricour went over to Beaujardin, but did not take either of the young ladies with her, a circumstance at which Clotilde chafed not a little, declaring that she was quite sure that it was neither the weather nor the distance that stood in the way, as her mother alleged, but in order that she might not come across Monsieur de Crillon, who was just then on a visit at Beaujardin.

"What should I care about him?" she would say to Marguerite. "He has become much too grand a personage at court to care about such insignificant creatures as you or I. Why, I am told he is quite the right-hand man of the king's minister, and that he is likely enough some day to rise to be one of the first officers of state; but then he has no money, and as I have not a farthing, perhaps it is no wonder that mamma is in such terrible fear of our meeting, even for one evening, at Beaujardin."

And where was Isidore all this week? If any one asked, the reply was that it was believed he had gone to Paris to pay his respects to the king, though there were some amongst the domestics at Beaujardin who smiled when they heard that, for Monsieur Jasmin was still at the chateau; it was even whispered that Isidore had once or twice been seen at Valricour whilst the baroness was away. If that lady, however, did know anything of these rumours, she took no notice of them, and bided her time.

There had been a large party at Beaujardin, at which the marquis and marchioness, whatever may have been their disquietude at heart, had treated their guests with all their wonted courtesy and attention. Nevertheless it is likely enough that long after the numerous and distinguished visitors had retired to rest, the noble host and hostess, as well as the Baroness de Valricour, who had been present, spent more than one wakeful hour. Besides them, however, there were three other persons in the chateau who sat up till a late period of the night. In a handsomely furnished and well lighted apartment at the rear of the mansion Monsieur Boulederouloue, the steward or maitre d'hotel, with his special guests, Monsieur Achille Perigord, the chef de cuisine, and Monsieur Jasmin, the young marquis' valet, yet lingered over a flask of Chateau d'Yquem, such as all the regiments of royal butlers at Versailles could not have set before his most Christian Majesty Louis Quinze himself.

The three men were in every particular about as unlike to each other as any three men could be. The valet, who possessed an unusually good face and figure, whose costume was unexceptionable, and who had acquired to perfection the ultra-courteous manners of the time, might have passed for a nobleman anywhere except alongside of a real one. One might really have been excused for fancying him of a different race of beings from Monsieur Boulederouloue, the shapelessness of whose huge unwieldy frame was happily rendered undistinguishable by an extravagantly full suit of the Louis Quatorze fashion. An enormous full-bottomed wig of the same period surmounted and flanked his full moon face of pasty whiteness, most like the battered and colourless visage of an old wax doll, in which a transverse slit does duty for a mouth, and whose deficiency in the article of nose is counterbalanced by great glassy eyes guiltless of a single atom of expression. Marvellous indeed was Monsieur Boulederouloue's stolidity in all things, and not less notable his stupidity in all but one; that one thing, however, was his business as maitre d'hotel, in which he was unsurpassed, unrivalled. If you told him that there had been no kings of France before Louis the Fourteenth, and that his native country was an island in the Pacific, that grass grew on trees in India, and that the stars were old moons chopped up into bits, he would have stared at you and believed it all. What did he know of such things? His father and grandfather had been stewards in the Beaujardin family before he was born; from his infancy he had seen, noted, watched, talked of, cared for only what pertained to the proper regulation of the household that constituted his little world. So he grew up, and on the day on which his father, old Mathieu Boulederouloue, departed this life, young Mathieu put on the Louis Quatorze suit and wig, and not one of the guests at the chateau could have imagined that the one functionary in the place most important to him had bequeathed to new and untried hands the post that he had filled for forty years. What of it? From that day it was with young Mathieu as it had been with old Mathieu. One glance into the brilliant saloon told him how many covers were required for supper, what wines, what viands, suited the occasion. One stately walk round the furnished table was enough for him to detect the minutest error or omission of his myrmidons. Not one of the hundreds of guests that visited the chateau crossed the great hall to whom the maitre d'hotel was unable to assign on the spot the chamber he was to occupy, his place at table, and the degree of precedence to which he was entitled. Yes, M. Boulederouloue was assuredly a perfect master of his business; and what is more, the scores of servants under him were all masters of theirs, for he had a most simple and summary mode of dealing with any one that was not perfectly in order. The offending party was at once summoned to the presence of Monsieur Boulederouloue, who presented him with an order on the intendant for the wages due to him, and without a word waved his hand towards the door. Remonstrance and entreaty, or the assurance that it was a first fault, were alike in vain; a stare, a shrug, and just possibly the pithy injunction, "Go!" was the utmost they ever elicited from the maitre d'hotel; and as their wages were high and always paid to the day, a practice by no means common in great households in those times, the cases of delinquency were few, and M. Boulederouloue's staff, like himself, did their duty to perfection.

And Monsieur Perigord, the chef? Well, if Monsieur Boulederouloue weighed twice as much as M. Jasmin, the latter certainly weighed twice as much as Monsieur Perigord. Diminutive and meagre to a degree, the master of the kitchen possessed a mighty soul, and was endowed with an energy of purpose that must have made him first and foremost in any sphere of life; but fate had ordained that he should only be the first and foremost cook in all the world, though as Beaujardin, and not Versailles, was the scene of his operations, it is only in these humble pages that his name will go down to posterity. Such was his restless vivacity, that in his ever ready denunciations of anything poor and mean, or cowardly, his shrivelled frame would quiver like a marionette on wires; he would rend in shreds his laced frill and ruffles, scattering thorn like snowflakes on the floor, and end by flinging after them his small pig-tailed queue, leaving all bare and bald a head that for colour and size might have been mistaken for an ostrich egg, but for the hawk-like beak and small fiery black eyes, that would have been ridiculous in any face but that of Monsieur Perigord.

That Monsieur Jasmin should look down with sovereign contempt on two such men—on the maitre d'hotel for his entire absence of all sensitiveness, and on the chef de cuisine for his unpolished excess of it was only natural. Yet it must not be supposed that with either of them he indulged that air of supercilious patronage with which he was accustomed to treat all not absolutely above him in the social scale; it would have been simply thrown away upon the one, the other would have kicked him for it, even if he had to get upon a chair to do so. Still Monsieur Jasmin managed to maintain some kind of mysterious superiority over both, and, on the present occasion, he took care to let them know that he was the depository of a most important family secret—in fact the counsellor and confidential agent in an affair of the most vital consequence to the powers above. At first he had only dropped vague hints, but what with M. Boulederouloue's dullness in comprehending them, and Monsieur Perigord's sudden and searching comments on them, he gradually began to let out more and more. Perhaps the Chateau d'Yquem loosened M. Jasmin's tongue, for he had latterly been staying much at Valricour, and as the wine allowed that household was of a quality and quantity that gave an additional relish to unstinted measure and a vintage of the choicest class, he became more and more communicative.

"To be sure—to be sure! It is but natural that Monsieur Isidore should marry Mademoiselle Clotilde," exclaimed the voluble little man, as Jasmin with a mysterious smile left some allusion to the subject half unsaid. "It is only what was to be expected—it could hardly be otherwise—any one could guess that. What! Have I not danced them both on my knees when they were babies, and seen them grow up together as it were hand in hand, as if they were destined from their cradles to be husband and wife? He is noble, generous, and handsome; she is witty, virtuous, and beautiful. What do you tell us of a rival—of complications—of difficulties—of a mesalliance?"

Again M. Jasmin smiled mysteriously; M. Boulederouloue, collecting all his energies for the purpose, ejaculated, "Impossible!"

"Our good friend is right; it is impossible," continued Perigord vivaciously. "Who could come between them? Who else could aspire to the hand of monsieur our young marquis? Ah! my good friend, you have been dreaming of something till you have imagined it to be a reality."

Monsieur Jasmin was nettled, but he only smiled again more contemptuously, saying, "Of course, it was doubtless only a dream of mine that there is such a young lady as Mademoiselle Lacroix."

"What! Mademoiselle Marguerite, she is a reality indeed—sensible, handsome, courageous, charitable, an angel for one in her station; but then," here M. Perigord shrugged his shoulders, "she knows well that the rank of monsieur our young marquis forbids the thought of her aspiring to his hand. Ah, no! you deceive yourself, my friend, but you cannot deceive me in such a matter."

"Indeed," replied the other, sarcastically; "and what should you say if I tell you that she has won monsieur's heart already, and that he has offered her his hand? Yes," he added, observing the effect which his words produced even on the stolid countenance of the major-domo. "Yes, and what would you say if I told you that madame the baroness, who had set her heart on the union of the cousins, has discovered all this and has appealed to monsieur the marquis himself about it?"

Monsieur Perigord could only stare at the speaker in amazement, while, strange to say, M. Boulederouloue, with whom astonishment was an habitual and chronic state, was able to exclaim, "The world is coming to an end!"

"Absurd, ridiculous, preposterous, impossible!" cried Perigord at last, with a vehement sweep of his hand which sent a decanter and a couple of wine glasses flying off the table. "Monsieur Jasmin, your powers of invention are wonderful indeed, but I am not such a fool as to believe all this. How could you know it even if it were all true? Answer me that, my friend—answer me that!"

"But I am fool enough to believe what I know to be true," retorted the valet, forgetting his habitual caution in his irritation at M. Perigord's incredulity. "And if you wish to know how I learnt all this, permit me to inform you that madame the baroness herself was so obliging as to make me acquainted with it at interviews with which she favoured me. I can tell you more," he added, provoked by the scornful smile with which M. Perigord received these last words, and thereupon he gave forth, with a volubility that would have done no discredit to old Perigord himself, a tolerably full account of all he knew or had gathered from others respecting the affair, concluding with a supercilious intimation that he had now at madame's request taken the matter in hand, and would soon set all to rights.

"Ah, no doubt—no doubt! Madame could not have chosen a more able person for the business," cried M. Perigord, suppressing the indignation that boiled within him by an effort which could scarcely have deceived the wily valet had he been sober. "I was a fool indeed to suppose that my good friend could be mistaken in his surmises; but then I could not know that he was honoured with the confidence of madame the baroness. And yet it is a weighty matter—a maze of difficulties, a labyrinth of conflicting circumstances. If Mademoiselle Clotilde does not care for Monsieur Isidore after all, and he loves Mademoiselle Marguerite, and has actually plighted his word to her, what master-stroke of policy can even the genius of M. Jasmin devise to overcome such obstacles?"

The valet's wits were too blunted to detect the irony, but he drank in the flattery as he sipped his wine. "Bah!" replied he, "our young master can have his choice between a union with Mademoiselle Clotilde or a lettre de cachet; and as for pretty Mademoiselle Lacroix, as she has no particular home of her own, she ought to be grateful if we find her one in some convent where the lady superior is not too fond of letting her protegees gad abroad—you understand?"

"Yes; but what if she should appeal to the baron, who, as we know, pledged himself to protect the poor orphan, and should refuse to permit her to go just wherever she is bid?" As he spoke these words M. Perigord clutched the chair in which he sat as if to keep himself steady, whilst a nervous twitching seemed to convulse his lilliputian frame.

"Oh, leave that to me," rejoined the valet; "I warrant you I'll find a way when the time comes, and that will very likely be no further off than to-morrow, to tempt the silly little bird into the snare of the fowler." Saying this, the valet rose as if to depart, but at the same moment the fiery little king of the kitchen bounded from his chair, sprang at him, and seized him by the throat, exclaiming—

"Traitor! miscreant! Is this your duty, faith, and loyalty to your young master? If all men had their due your false and cowardly heart should be torn out of your bosom for daring thus to plot against a noble and beautiful young lady, whom one would think even the meanest would feel bound to help and protect."



M. Boulederouloue rose from his chair and stood aghast, ejaculating solemnly, "It is terrible!"

"And to think that such a scoundrel should be trusted by madame the baroness! Shame upon her! It is abominable!" Saying which M. Perigord, who had by this time let go the valet's throat, snatched off his own wig and dashed it passionately on the floor. "Begone, despicable scoundrel that you are," he added, as the valet, with a malignant scowl, but without venturing to utter a word, made his way to the door. "Begone! go to madame if you like, and tell her that if old Achille Perigord can do anything to save our young master and this poor young lady from your horrible schemes he will not leave it undone, I promise you."

Having hurled this speech after his retreating foe, M. Perigord also retired, after a parting salutation to the maitre d'hotel, who could only answer by holding up his hands and exclaiming, "Alas! the world is coming to an end!"



CHAPTER VI.

After the memorable interview with his father, Isidore had at first buoyed himself up with the hope that with the help Clotilde and Marguerite he might still find some way out of the difficulty; a night of anxious thought, however, convinced him that they would be powerless to effect anything, and that he must act for himself, and promptly too. He could not remain at Beaujardin, nor could he any longer accept the hospitality of the baroness. Besides, out of consideration for Clotilde he did not care to disclose to her her mother's part in the matter, whilst his pride recoiled from telling Marguerite all the humiliating incidents of the scene with his father. There could be no hope of their speedy union, or indeed of any favourable turn of affairs for some time to come, and he therefore resolved to go off straight to Paris and obtain his re-appointment to his former post in Canada; there he could communicate with his uncle, and secure his aid. He accordingly confided to a trusty messenger a note, in which he briefly informed Marguerite of the unfavourable result of his visit to Beaujardin, and of his object in proceeding to Paris, whence he promised to return without delay. He set off for that city on the following morning, and on arriving there made his application to the Minister of War; but two days elapsed before he received an answer. What was his astonishment on opening it to find that the application was refused! He was on the point of hurrying off to seek an interview with the Minister himself, when he perceived a small note, which had been enclosed with the official letter; it was in the hand of a confidential secretary whom he knew well, and ran as follows:—

"Quit Paris without an hour's delay, or you are lost. The danger also threatens a person about whom you are most concerned."

The warning came from one who would not have penned it without good grounds, and Isidore felt that it was not to be neglected for a moment. What if some mischief had already befallen Marguerite during his absence! In half an hour he was again in the saddle and on his way to Valricour.

Full of anxiety, and wholly unable to form any plan for want of information as to the nature of the impending danger, he rode on, with but scanty rest, stopping only for a few hours during each night. The road to Valricour passed close to Beaujardin, and the sun was just rising as he came to one of the side gates leading into the great gardens of the chateau. Suddenly the thought occurred to him that he would see his father once more, and make a final appeal to him. Prompt to act on his resolves, he sprang from his horse, and telling his attendant to await his return, entered the garden and made his way towards the mansion. Ah, if only his path were as clear and straight as those he was now treading—and yet the stiff formality of the vast pleasure grounds seemed hideous and hateful to him. To think that hundreds of thousands of livres should be spent on making nature as unlike to herself as possible. Here were miles of straight gravel walks and terraces, and hedges of almost incredible height, cut trimly to pattern like gigantic green walls, with prim and formal arches cut to the inch, and, for a change, long terraces with cold stone balustrades and statues, which, instead of giving life, made everything seem yet more lifeless. O for a thicket or a coppice, or a clump of tangled brambles, to show that there was some sympathy in nature with the tangled trouble of his heart! Yet the inflexible regularity of all around him produced one effect on Isidore, and led him to make up his mind on one point at least. He resolved that no consideration whatever should induce him to give up Marguerite, or to desert at such a crisis the poor girl who could have no hope but in his constancy. There were moments in which he could not help thinking that the kindest thing he could do would be to relinquish her, and thus free her at once from the persecution she had incurred. Still he clung to the notion that his father could not really intend to cast him off altogether. Yes, the marquis had been indeed harsh and angry, but it could not be denied that appearances gave him some excuse. These thoughts were passing through his mind when he noticed that some one was dogging his steps. In no mood to brook anything that looked like espionage he turned sharply on the intruder, and, to his surprise, found that it was old Achille Perigord.

"What! is it you?" said the young marquis. "What brings you here at such an hour?"

"Alas, alas! my dear young master," replied the old man, "then it is you indeed; I had hardly dared to hope for such good fortune. But there is not a moment to be lost."

"What do you mean?" answered Isidore, hastily. "What brings you here?"

"I thought I saw you in the garden as I stood at my window, almost despairing of ever seeing you again. Ah, there may yet be a chance of saving you, for you are in such danger that I shudder to think of it—you whom I have dandled on my knee—you who were always so brave and so good, and so considerate to me, and were always fighting any young malapert who laughed at old Perigord."

Isidore could not help feeling his heart yearn towards the old chef, who, indeed, had got him out of many a boyish scrape, and allayed the pain of many a whipping with tarts, preserves, and other delicacies.

"Yes, you used to stand my friend often enough, Monsieur Perigord," said Isidore, as the old days came vividly back to his memory, "though I am afraid your well-meant sympathy will not help me much just now. But what do you know of my troubles and my danger?"

"I know all—everything—partly from what I have picked up in various quarters, for you may easily suppose that what goes on in the salon is talked about in the kitchen, but principally from that villain, that traitor, Jasmin, who for once let his tongue run on last night, and told enough to make it certain that something terrible is impending over you, and not only over you, but also over that sweet young lady, Mademoiselle Marguerite. Yes, my dear young master," continued the old man, as Isidore gave a slight start, and regarded him with manifest anxiety, "yes, I know how matters stand between you, and that there is a plot hatching against you, in which—monsieur will excuse me if I say it plainly—madame the baroness is the chief actor, and in which she has bribed that rascal to assist her and to betray you."

Isidore gazed at him half incredulous, and yet after what he had learned at Paris, what could be more likely, considering Madame de Valricour's conduct, and the check she had received in her most cherished plans?

"And Jasmin too! Where is the scoundrel?" said Isidore, impetuously. "Is he here?"

"My good master, do not waste time on him. I tell you frankly that I fear madame is contemplating a lettre de cachet, it may be for mademoiselle only, but I do not believe that even you are safe from her machinations, and I have reason to believe she has influence enough at Versailles for anything."

"I am not afraid of her, Monsieur Perigord," observed Isidore haughtily. "My father would hardly stand that, although he may be angry with me, as I suppose you know, since you know so much else."

"Perhaps so, perhaps so," answered old Perigord; "but it may be done behind his back, and before he can interfere. Besides, even if monsieur is safe I do not suppose he would let Mademoiselle Marguerite run any risk of such a horrible fate if he could help it."

"You are right, my good friend," said Isidore; "I am afraid there is danger indeed, and at all events I will do what I can to avert it. I will go on at once to Valricour and warn Mademoiselle Lacroix, though as to what more I can do I am at present utterly at a loss."

"Then I will tell you," rejoined the old man. "I have a cousin at St. Sulpice—you know the place, monsieur—it is on the Paris road from Valricour, not more than four or five leagues from the chateau; he is an honest and kindly man. I will go to him to-day—it is a fete day there, and my visit will cause no surprise. I will tell him that you are coming, and I am sure he and his wife will give mademoiselle a refuge—ay, and you too, if things should come to the worst—until something can be done. He is a worthy man, and I will answer for him with my life. Now go, my dear young master, and Heaven speed you. There is no time to lose."

Isidore would have expressed his thanks to the old man for the lively interest he had shown, and for the assistance he had so promptly offered in case of need, but Perigord had already vanished. Ten minutes later the young marquis was again on horseback, and on his way to Valricour.

On reaching the chateau Isidore found his cousin and Marguerite in a state of great anxiety on account of his long absence, and what he had to tell them was not calculated to allay their uneasiness. Fortunately they were alone, as the baroness had again gone over to Beaujardin that morning, and many a plan was discussed and abandoned by turns as their vague hopes of finding some way out of the difficulty alternated with the fears to which Isidore's account of the interview with his father, of the warning received in Paris, and of the meeting with old Perigord, could not but give rise. At last it was agreed that Isidore should wait and boldly face Madame de Valricour on her return, and that the final step to be taken should depend on the clue which that interview might afford as to the precise nature of the danger and the quarter from which it was likely to come. In the meanwhile Isidore, who was well known and much liked in the neighbouring village, engaged the services of a small tenant farmer who owned a good horse and cart, in case Marguerite's immediate removal from Valricour should prove to be necessary.

It was already dusk when the distant sound of wheels was heard, and on hastening to the window they perceived the great lumbering family coach coming up the avenue. In a couple of minutes more it had stopped at the hall door, and all eyes were bent on the spot to catch a sight of the baroness. To their surprise, however, no Madame Valricour descended from the vehicle, but they noticed that in addition to madame's coachman and footman it was accompanied by one of the Beaujardin servants on horseback, a not unusual precaution when persons of note travelled after dusk, although one which the state of her household and stable mostly obliged the baroness to dispense with. The mystery was soon solved by the entrance of a servant with a note for Mademoiselle Lacroix. It was from Madame de Valricour, and was to the effect that as she had found it impossible to return to the chateau that evening, she considered it undesirable that Marguerite should remain under her roof after what had passed, she had therefore, she added, sent the carriage to bring her to the Chateau de Beaujardin, where she would for the present remain.

More than once was this unexpected communication perused both by Marguerite and her friends, and then an animated dispute arose as to what was to be done. Marguerite, anxious only to escape from a roof under which she was in such a false position, was for setting off at once in compliance with the wishes of the baroness; Isidore, however, would not hear of her going alone, and declared that he would accompany her and make another appeal to his father.

Clotilde shook her head. "It is useless," said she; "nay, I will go further," she continued with a sigh, "I am afraid that there is more beneath this letter than we can fathom. It is not what my mother would write if this were all she meant. I will take Marguerite's place and go to Beaujardin."

"You!" exclaimed Isidore and Marguerite in a breath. "What will be the good of that?"

"At any rate," replied Clotilde, "I will try what I can do with my uncle, and I think I may do more than either or both of you just now."

"But how can I stay here?" pleaded Marguerite.

"I have not forgotten that; you can remain here no longer, and there is but one thing to be done. Isidore must take you at once and place you under the care of Greboeuf, at St. Sulpice. Ask me no questions; I have my reasons, but I cannot tell them. Alas! that it should ever fall to my lot to bid you, whom I have loved so dearly, to leave my own father's house!"

For a few minutes the two girls were clasped in each other's arms; but Clotilde soon regained her composure, and assuming as cheerful a face as she could, impressed upon her friend the necessity of carrying out her plan, which was this. She herself was to depart in the coach sufficiently disguised to pass for Marguerite; the latter, putting on Clotilde's cloak and hood, was immediately afterwards to leave the chateau with Isidore and go off to St. Sulpice. Clotilde was to let them know on the following day, through old Perigord, how matters stood at Beaujardin, so that they might act accordingly. By this time the horses had been baited, and all being now arranged, Isidore took down his cousin and hurried her into the vehicle, which started off at once.

Not a little perplexed and anxious at the turn things had taken, Clotilde leaned back in the comfortable coach and called to mind the various incidents of the day. At first her cheek flushed with indignation at the thought of her mother's conduct towards one whom hospitality and the commonest feeling of pity should have protected from such treatment. To think that it was her own mother! Clotilde covered her face with her hands and gave way to her tears. She was, however, not one of those who fold their hands and let circumstances overmaster them. She had by nature both the wit and the courage that can turn things to the best account; quickly drying her tears, therefore, she set herself to consider how she might take advantage of this unexpected visit to Beaujardin. She could not but fear that the baroness intended to carry off Marguerite to some safe place, where there would be no means of communicating with Isidore; such things were not seldom done, and with a strong hand too, when it was found necessary to cut the gordian knot of a family difficulty. In this design she would be foiled, at least for the present, and with the help of M. Perigord and his friends Marguerite might be kept out of harm's way. In the meanwhile Clotilde would have an opportunity of appealing to her uncle, who, she fully believed, would never countenance any positive ill-treatment of one who might be said to have been bequeathed to the hospitality of the family. She might have doubted even her own ability to detach the marquis from the enemy's ranks but for one little circumstance, which was this. On hearing Isidore's account of the scene at the Chateau de Beaujardin, and the incident of the charred scrap of paper, Clotilde had gone and examined the stove in the apartment occupied by Isidore during his recent visit. Not a trace could she find of anything having been burnt there, and a minute questioning of the domestics had proved beyond a doubt that any story of the burning of the letter in that room was a fabrication. She knew well her uncle's intense abhorrence of anything like treachery or deceit. It was indeed this trait in his disposition that had led to his severity towards Isidore, and it was on this that she now relied for the success of her efforts to enlist the sympathy of the old marquis in favour of her cousin and her friend.

Absorbed in these thoughts Clotilde took no note of time or distance, while the growing darkness and the absence of novelty in a ride from Valricour to Beaujardin, to say nothing of the pre-occupation of her mind, kept her from observing anything outside of the lumbering vehicle in which she sat. They had jogged on for a considerable time, however, when the coach stopped. Under ordinary circumstances this would hardly have interfered with Clotilde's meditations, the occurrence being common enough at a period when in France, as in other countries, most of the roads, except those along which the king himself was accustomed to travel, were usually in a deplorable condition, notwithstanding the lessons left behind by those famous old road-makers the Romans, and in spite of the iniquitous road-laws which threw upon all but the nobles an intolerable amount of personal labour in the making and maintaining of the highways. But on the present occasion Clotilde's attention was arrested by the circumstance that men were busy changing the horses, and although it was now dark, she noticed at the roadside a great white stone cross, from which she knew that they must have turned off from the direct road to Beaujardin. Surprised, and perhaps a little alarmed, she tried to open one of the windows to obtain some explanation, but it was so tightly fastened that she found this impossible. She tried the other, but that too defied all her efforts, and whilst she was still thus engaged the coach was once more driven on, and now at a gallop. Then, as she peered anxiously out, she observed that the horseman who rode close to the carriage was a much bigger man than the groom from Beaujardin who had started with them from Valricour, and that he was muffled in a great riding-cloak. Clotilde was one of those women whose courage rises just when that of others usually fails: without an instant's hesitation she stooped down, and the next moment the high wooden heel of one of her shoes sent the window-pane flying in shivers out upon the road. A touch of the spur at once brought her escort alongside of the broken window.

"Holloa!" he exclaimed, in a voice Clotilde had never heard before, "what is all this about?"

"Fellow!" she replied, indignantly, "what is the meaning of this? Who are you?—and why have we gone out of our road?"

"Ah, well," answered the man coolly, "of course it is natural enough that you should want to know, but——"

"Impudent scoundrel!" cried Clotilde, "stop the carriage this moment and let me alight, or——"

"Look you, mademoiselle," the horseman here broke in, bringing his face at the same time close to the carriage window, and speaking sternly, though in a low voice, as if to avoid being overheard, "you seem to be a fine spirited young lady, and I should be sorry to let that bring you into more trouble. You are not going to Beaujardin this time. I have my orders to take you somewhere else. Now just listen, no harm will come to you if you keep quiet and go peaceably. What is more, I give you my word, if you choose to take it, that I am going to hand you over to the safe keeping of a lady who, I suppose, will treat you as a gentlewoman ought to be treated, but go you must—there's no help for that. 'Tis of no use trying to raise an alarm; that might only cost a couple of lives, perhaps," and here the speaker just opened his heavy mantle sufficiently to show the butt ends of two heavy pistols at his belt. "So, mademoiselle," he concluded, "be complaisant, and make the best of a bad business."

For a few minutes Clotilde felt overwhelmed and almost stunned at finding herself suddenly, and without the slightest warning, in a position so strange and obviously so full of peril. As soon as she could collect herself, however, a light broke in upon her, and with it a faint hope of escape.

"Whoever you are," she exclaimed, calling to her unknown attendant, who now continued to ride close to the window, perhaps to stop promptly any possible attempt to give an alarm, "whoever you are, you have simply made a stupid mistake, which will only get you into trouble. I am not the lady you suppose. No, sirrah," she added, as her anger made her for the moment forget her danger, "I am Mademoiselle de Valricour; so now you will see that if you dare to attempt to carry out your villainy you will have to pay dearly for it the moment that I can send either to Valricour or to Beaujardin."

"A very likely thing, no doubt," replied the horseman; "I have had that sort of trick tried upon me more than once; but to tell you the truth I neither know nor care a sou whether you be what you say you are or not. I have my orders and I stick to them, so there's an end of it." With these words the man dropped a few paces behind, and left Clotilde to a very different train of meditations from those which had been so startlingly interrupted.

There could not be a doubt that she had fallen into a trap intended for another victim, and that the object of this nefarious plot was to put a stop to the engagement between Marguerite Lacroix and the young marquis. The thought that such foul means should be used for the purpose against her bosom friend brought the hot blood into Clotilde's cheeks, and she stamped her little foot impetuously in the height of her indignation. Then she paused, and her colour fled again as she bethought her of what might be the end of it all if she should be unable to communicate with her mother or the Marquis de Beaujardin, and should be left to——

To what? More than once she had heard M. de Crillon talk—and very unconcernedly too—of the living death of those who unhappily became the victims of a lettre de cachet. Yes, she remembered well how once, in order to gratify her importunate curiosity, he had told her of people sent to Pignerol, St. Michel, or Isle Marguerite, never to be heard of more. He had actually taken to himself some little share of credit for the dread inspired far and near by the terrible length of the merciless arm which could strike down an enemy at the court of some foreign potentate. Not long since, indeed, it had dared to seize at Frankfort a man too dangerous through his connection with the world of letters, and had consigned him to a living tomb, if even his life had been spared. She shuddered at the thought; but even the prospect of a fate so dismal could not long keep down the generous and heroic spirit of Clotilde de Valricour. "At least," she murmured, "I shall save poor Marguerite; nay, I perhaps maybe the means of enabling her to be happy with Isidore in spite of these cruel machinations."

How long the journey lasted the unfortunate girl had no means of knowing; it seemed to her an age, though in reality it was but a few hours. She became at last nearly exhausted with the incessant jolting over rough roads, and plunging about in others that were little better than bogs. Excitement, however, and the continual apprehension of some unlooked-for catastrophe forbade all thoughts of sleep, and it was actually with a sensation of relief that she noticed that the huge carriage was rattling over a rough pavement, and heard the noise of great gates being swung to, and barred behind them. She looked out, and could just perceive that they had driven into a spacious court-yard, nearly surrounded by grey, sombre-looking buildings, at the great entrance door of which the vehicle drew up.



CHAPTER VII.

Alighting hastily from the carriage, Clotilde ran up the great flight of steps which led to the door. As she entered, it was closed behind her, but to her surprise, and much to her relief, she found that the janitress was a nun.

"Tell me, good sister, tell me for the love of Heaven, what place is this? Where have these men brought me to?" she exclaimed, trembling with excitement.

Apparently somewhat astonished at the vehemence of the new-comer, the female answered only by making a sign to Clotilde to follow her; she then led the way across the hall to a spacious apartment, and there left her. Clotilde would have repeated her questions, but she was too late, and on trying the door she found it locked.

The fact that the house must in some way be connected with a religious establishment of some kind allayed her fears, however, and she cast an anxious glance around the apartment, which was lighted by a handsome chandelier suspended from the ceiling. Her quick eye soon noticed more than one little accessory, which showed that the room was habitually occupied by a lady, and one moreover with wealth at her command, and apparently of refined taste. Any further speculations, however, were interrupted by the entrance of a personage whose dress and bearing seemed to indicate that she must be the Lady Superior of the place. The poor girl's first impulse was to spring towards her new protectress and pour out her troubles to her, but in spite of herself she felt the impulse checked, and her overflowing heart chilled by the cold and supercilious look that made still more repellant a face repulsively plain.

Clotilde could only clasp her hands together and gaze at her new hostess, as if she felt that any appeal for help or pity from such a quarter would be hopeless.

"I presume, mademoiselle," said the Lady Superior at last, "that we may begin by taking it for granted that you quite understand the reasons which have induced your friends, for your own good as well as in your own interests, to take the course they have done."

These words were spoken in a voice so sweet, and with an air of such high and courtly breeding, that for a moment Clotilde forgot everything else in her surprise that they could belong to one so hideously ugly. But the feeling was only momentary; the terrors of the night, which might well have beaten down the boldest spirit, had passed away; and once more, face to face with one of her own sex, Clotilde was herself again.

"I can indeed guess, madame," she answered, with almost her usual vivacity, "what reasons have induced those who should be dear to me to do this most wicked thing; but right glad am I to think that they have been foiled. By a strange mistake the bird they meant to catch has escaped, and I have for the moment fallen into the trap intended for another. I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance—a nearer acquaintance, indeed, I do not desire, if I am to understand that you are a willing party to this abominable plot—but I beg to introduce myself to you as the Baroness Clotilde de Valricour. May I beg the honour of your name and title?"

The lady's supercilious look gave place just for a few seconds to one of involuntary surprise, but it soon came back again as she replied, "Mademoiselle Lacroix will pardon me if I do not allow myself to be deceived by this little scheme. I have been made so far acquainted with the circumstances of the case as to know that much deceit has been already practised, in which I believe the young baroness you speak of has not been without her share, and this may be, for aught I know, some fresh and cleverly devised phase of it. I must be excused for believing that those who had the matter in hand would not make so very silly a mistake, and I have only to communicate to mademoiselle the object with which she has been brought hither."

It may well be imagined that Clotilde was not a little disconcerted both by the tone and tenor of this reply. Had she been able to frame any very definite wish during her journey, it would perhaps have been that she might meet with some such person as the Lady Superior of a religious house and claim her protection. Here she was in just such a position, yet with the clouds apparently gathering still more blackly over her. She would have been less surprised, however, had she known a little more about the antecedents of Madame de Varny, the Superior of the Ursuline Convent, the place to which she had been brought. Noble by birth, and pre-eminently lovely and accomplished, Madame de Varny had once been the proudest beauty of the court of King Louis, but having been attacked by that terrible scourge the small-pox, she had recovered only to find herself as hideous as she had once been beautiful. To be an object of loathing where she had formerly been courted and admired was more than her frivolous and worldly mind could bear, and she had retired to the seclusion of a nominally religious life, in which her rank and influence secured her the position she now enjoyed; but, like many of her class, she still clung to the world, and her intriguing disposition led her often enough to lend her aid, whenever those with whom she had been used to associate required it, to carry out some plot or scheme arising out of the debased and unscrupulous court life of that period. She was an old acquaintance of Madame de Valricour, and in her the baroness had found an able and willing confederate in the business now on hand.

"Madame," said Clotilde, after a short silence, "you will believe me or not, as you think best, and will make to me what communication you choose; it rests with me to decide how I shall act upon it."

"Not altogether," replied the lady, with a smile that had nothing very pleasant in it. "Mademoiselle will not have much choice in the matter. I shall not waste time," she continued, "by any allusion to the family circumstances to which you owe your visit here; they are as well known to you as to me—perhaps better. I can pity your infatuation of course; it must have been very great indeed to allow you to suppose that a personage so exalted as the Marquis de Beaujardin could for one moment dream of permitting an alliance between his son and one like yourself. Such a thing would be absurd, and of course the marquis and his relatives must prevent it by all and any means. It has been therefore arranged that a gentleman of excellent family, who it seems has had some opportunity of meeting you, and has, I hear, been much taken with your modest manners, as some foolish young men occasionally are, shall make you his wife. The marriage will take place here this afternoon; and I am permitted to tell you that the Marquis de Beaujardin has most generously taken it upon him to provide a dowry for you, notwithstanding your ingratitude to that noble family. You are indeed fortunate, my young lady, in so happy an ending to so lamentable an affair." Here the lady paused as if to receive the acknowledgments befitting such kindness and consideration.

"Indeed!" answered Clotilde at last. "Indeed! And pray, madame, what if, in the new character thus forced upon me, I should decline to accept the gentleman, and should fling my uncle's dowry in his face, and tell him that he ought to be ashamed of degrading himself by taking part against a poor orphan girl, whom he and his are bound by all that is sacred to love and protect? What then?"

The lady seemed just for a minute or so rather bewildered by Clotilde's vehement sally, but as soon as she recovered herself she replied with ominous coldness and decision, "I can scarcely suppose that mademoiselle could do anything so very silly; but if such should be the case, why there will be another ride in the coach, perhaps a longer one than the last. It will certainly not be to Beaujardin nor to Valricour. Where it may stop I will not pretend to say. But did Mademoiselle Marguerite never hear of such a thing as a lettre de cachet? Well, you will have some hours to think over it, and in the meanwhile you will be quite safe here; but pray do not cherish any foolish hope that you have any choice except between a ring and a ride to some place where you will not be less safe than here, but where you will most assuredly stay a good deal longer. Let us hope that you will be better advised, and accept the hand of Monsieur de Crillon."

The hand of Monsieur de Crillon! Yes, those were the words with which the imperious dame had swept out of the room, locking the door after her. Clotilde could scarcely believe her ears. Then he, too, who had allowed her, nay, led her to suppose that to win her hand was the object nearest to his heart, had consented for the sake of the promised dowry to wed one for whom he cared not a jot, well knowing that the union could only bring misery, not happiness, to the victim of his selfish covetousness! Never till this moment had Clotilde suspected how much she really cared for him; but that was now a thing of the past. Happily she had learned in time how mean and despicable he was, and in her indignation she rejoiced at the humiliation he would experience on finding that the wicked scheme was marred, and that he himself would have the task of proving who she was, and bringing about her release. But it was a bitter thing to find herself in such a position, and to know that her mother, and even the marquis, were concerned in such a plot. It is scarcely to be wondered at that she at length gave way to her grief; her only comfort was that, as it had turned out, Marguerite had escaped the present danger, and as she thought of this she could not help feeling thankful that there would yet be a delay of many hours before the shameless de Crillon would discover how they had been foiled.

Somewhat reassured by these reflections, she proceeded to examine a little more calmly the place where she was detained. She now observed for the first time a side-table, on which a repast that might serve either as a supper or a breakfast was laid out, and on looking timidly through an open door she found a sleeping apartment, evidently intended for the expected prisoner. She was too excited as yet to take either food or rest, and sat down to meditate on the prospect before her. It would, however, be as painful as it would be profitless to follow her through the long hours that ensued; let us see, then, what in the meanwhile was happening elsewhere.

Madame de Valricour had remained at Beaujardin for the night, perhaps not caring to have to answer the questions with which Clotilde might be expected to meet her on her return home. What was her surprise when, early in the forenoon, a messenger arrived from Valricour with a note from Madame de Bleury, informing her that immediately on the departure of the coach on the previous evening Isidore had left the chateau in company with Mademoiselle de Valricour, and that they had not since returned. Utterly at a loss to account for so strange a proceeding, the baroness prepared to hasten home at once, but finally resolved first to make sure that the plot against Marguerite, which she deemed of the greatest moment, had been successful; and she accordingly set out for the convent. It was a ride of some hours' length, and she did not arrive until the afternoon was well advanced. Imagine her amazement and anger when, after hearing from the Superior an account of her interview with the young lady, she satisfied herself beyond a doubt that Clotilde was really there, and that it must have been Marguerite with whom Isidore had escaped from Valricour.

"Bid Monsieur de Crillon wait for me when he arrives," said she. "I shall want his help more than ever. In the meanwhile I will go and inform the cure that his services will not be required at present. I will then see my daughter, and take her home."