It was with a touch of mental annoyance, therefore, that he received the announcement of General Ratoneau's visit. But he was far too well bred to show a sign of such feeling. He left that to the little dogs, who barked their disapproval. He closed his book, went to meet the General in the library, and invited him out to his favourite seat in the summer-house. They were an odd contrast as they sat there together; the quiet, graceful gentleman in ordinary morning dress of an easy description, the soldier, impatient and rough in manner, flashing at every point with gold lace and polished leather.

"Monsieur le Préfet, I have a favour to ask," Ratoneau began.

He did not often speak so civilly, and the Prefect felt relieved, for he had had more than one bad quarter of an hour with this colleague of his.

"How can I oblige you, Monsieur le Général?" he asked, smiling.

"By doing your duty," said Ratoneau, with a grin.

The Prefect shrugged his shoulders slightly, raised his eyebrows and looked at him.

"I ought not," he said, "to need the additional inducement of doing you a favour. I was not aware of having neglected any duty. To what, pray, do you refer?"

"I refer to an order from the Emperor which you have not obeyed."

"Indeed?"

The Prefect's smile had now quite faded. "An order from the Emperor!" he repeated.

"Yes. His Majesty ordered you to report to him the names and particulars of all young girls of good family in the department."

"And what of that, monsieur?"

"I am quite sure you have not done so."

Something in the General's tone was so displeasing to one of the Prefect's little dogs, that it suddenly sprang up and snapped at him. Its master just saved it from a kick by catching it up on his knee.

"A bas, Toutou!" he said, softly stroking it, and took a pinch of snuff, regarding the General with a curiously patient expression.

"I know you have done nothing of the sort!" Ratoneau repeated.

"And how, may I ask, does the matter interest you?"

The Prefect spoke slowly and gently; yet something in his manner irritated the General. He made an impatient movement and rattled his sword.

"It does interest me," he said. "How can you disobey an order from the Emperor?"

"As to that, my dear colleague, I am responsible. You know the view I take of that order. I am not alone. Several of my brother Prefects agree with me. It is impolitic, and worse, offensive. The Emperor is reasonable, and does not expect a blind obedience which would really do harm to the Empire."

"Do not make too sure of that, Monsieur le Préfet."

"If the old provincial families are to be brought round en masse to the Empire, it must be done by diplomacy, not by a tyrannical domestic legislation."

"At that rate, Monsieur le Préfet, the work will take a hundred years. They laugh at your diplomacy, these infernal old families. Propose a soldier as a husband for one of their daughters, and you will see."

"I have not done so," the Prefect said very drily, and the glance that shot from under his quiet eyelids might have made a thin-skinned person uncomfortable.

"And nothing would make you do so, I suppose," sneered the General. "Come, monsieur, you should forget your aristocracy now and then, and remember that you are a servant of the Emperor. People will begin to say that His Majesty might be better served."

Monsieur de Mauves shrugged his shoulders, and reflected that if the Emperor had wished to punish him for some crime, he could not have done it better than by giving him this person for a colleague. Fortunately he had a splendid temper; Urbain de la Marinière himself was not endowed with a larger share of sweet reasonableness. Most men would not have endured the General's insolence for five minutes. The Prefect's love of peace and sense of public duty, united with extreme fairness of mind, helped him to make large allowances for his fellow-official. He knew that Ratoneau's vapouring talk was oftener in coarse joke than in sober earnest. He had, in truth, a very complete scorn of him, and hardly thought him worthy of a gentleman's steel. As to veiled threats such as that which had just fallen from his lips, the Prefect found them altogether beneath serious notice.

"Let us arrive at understanding each other, General," he said coldly, but very politely. "You began by asking me to do you a favour. Then you branched off to a duty I had neglected. You now give me a friendly warning. Is it, perhaps, because you fear to lose me as a colleague, that you have become anxious about my reports to His Majesty?" he smiled. "Or, how, I ask again, does the matter interest you?"

"In this way, Monsieur le Préfet," said Ratoneau. He pulled himself together, keeping his bullying instincts in check. After all, he knew he would be a fool to quarrel with the Prefect or to rouse his active opposition. "No offence?" he said gruffly. "You know me—you know my rough tongue."

The Prefect bowed courteously, and handed him his snuff-box.

"You saw last night at Lancilly," said Ratoneau, much more quietly, "that I had a long talk with Madame la Comtesse."

"A charming woman," said Monsieur de Mauves. "Certainly—you told me the subject of your talk, if you remember. Did you arrive then at any conclusion? What was our hostess's advice on that interesting subject? Did she suggest—the name of any lady, for instance?"

He noticed with a touch of amusement that the General looked slightly confused.

"I made a suggestion; and Madame de Sainfoy accepted it very kindly. In fact, Monsieur le Préfet, I asked her for her daughter, Mademoiselle Hélène."

Monsieur de Mauves knew that he ought to have been prepared for this answer; yet, somehow, he was not. Fixing his eyes on the yellow marble mosaic under his feet, he realised once more the frightful contrast that had struck him a few hours before in the lighted salon at Lancilly. "La belle Hélène," as everybody called her; the pale, beautiful girl with the sad eyes and enchanting smile, walking through the long room with her boy cousin, himself in his slender élancé beauty a perfect match for her, so that the eighteenth century might have painted them as two young deities from the Court of Olympus, come down to earth to show mortals a vision of the ideal! And General Ratoneau, the ponderous bully in uniform, the incarnation of the Empire's worst side!

"Sacrilege!"

Last night, the Prefect had thought the same. But he had then added "Impossible!" and now it seemed that the girl's mother did not agree with him. Could ambition carry a woman through such a slough as this? did she really mean to gain imperial favour by such a sacrifice?

For a moment or two the Prefect was lost in a dream; then he suddenly recovered himself.

"Pardon—and you say that Madame de Sainfoy accepted—"

"She thanked me for the honour," said the General, a little stiffly. "She expressed herself favourably. She only asked me to have patience till she could consult her husband. Between ourselves, madame knows that I could be of use to her at Court."

"Could you?"

"Certainly, Monsieur le Préfet. My friend, the Baron de Beauclair, is an equerry to Her Majesty the Empress."

"Oh!" Evidently the Prefect knew and cared little about the Baron de Beauclair. "But, Monsieur le Général," he said, with a puzzled frown, "I am still at a loss to understand you. Your course is apparently smooth. Why do you want the help of an imperial order which, if it did no other harm, would almost certainly set Monsieur de Sainfoy against you?"

Ratoneau's dark face flushed crimson. "Mille tonnerres, Monsieur le Préfet," he growled out, "Monsieur de Sainfoy is against me already, confound him! This afternoon he sent me a letter, flatly declining my proposal for his daughter."

"Is it possible!"

The Prefect had some difficulty in hiding the sincere, if inconsistent, joy that this news gave him.

"Well done!" he thought. "I should have expected nothing less. Ah! I see, I see," he said aloud. "Monsieur de Sainfoy does not quite share his wife's ambitions. It is unfortunate for you, certainly. But if you wish to marry into an old family, there are others—"

Ratoneau stared at him and laughed.

"What do you take me for? Am I beaten so easily? No, monsieur! Mademoiselle de Sainfoy is the woman I mean to marry. I admire that white skin, that perfect distinction. You will not put me off with some ugly little brown toad out of Brittany, I assure you!"

The Prefect laughed.

"But what is to be done? Unless you can gain her father's consent—"

"That is the favour you will do me, Monsieur le Préfet. You will write to headquarters, do you see, and an order will be sent down—yes, an order which her father would not disobey if he were a dozen dukes rolled into one, instead of being what he is, a poor emigrant count helped back into France by wiser men than himself! Voilà, monsieur! Do you understand me now?"

"Ah—yes, General, I understand you," said Monsieur de Mauves.

He leaned back in the corner of the marble seat, calm and deliberate, gently stroking the little dog on his knee. Those long white fingers had lifted the lid of Henriette's basket, those keen eyes, now thoughtfully lowered, had seen the hiding-place of the Chouans in Monsieur Joseph's wood; yet no harm had come to the Royalist conspirators. And now, when an official of the Empire asked his help in a private matter, help strictly legal, even within the limits of an imperial command, again this blameworthy Prefect would not stir a finger. He was running himself into greater danger than he knew, in the satisfaction of his gentle instincts, when he glanced up into the bold, angry, eager face beside him, and said with uncompromising clearness: "Do not deceive yourself, monsieur. I shall not write to headquarters on any such subject, and no such order will be sent down through any action or influence of mine. The Comte de Sainfoy is my friend, remember."

Ratoneau was choking with rage.

"You defy me, monsieur!" he snarled.

"Why—if such a desperate course is necessary," the Prefect murmured. "But I would rather reason with you."

CHAPTER XIII

Simon was a malcontent. He had talent, he wanted power. No one was cleverer at hunting out the details of a case; he was a born detective. It was hard on such a man, who intended to rise high in his profession, and found the spying and chasing of state criminals an agreeable duty, to be under the orders of so weak-kneed an official as the Baron de Mauves. What was the use of giving in reports that were never acted on! In other departments there were substantial money rewards to be had, if a police spy, at his own risk, hunted out treason against the Empire. In other departments a Prefect made it worth while, in every sense, for his subordinates to do their duty. In this one, since the present Prefect came into office, there was neither rising pay nor quick promotion. He drove with a slack rein; his weapons were trust and kindness. He had to be driven to extremities before he would treat anybody, even a proved Chouan, with the rigour of the law. Simon tried to do a little terrorising on his own account, and had made some money by blackmailing less wide-awake men than Urbain de la Marinière; but, on the whole, he earned more hatred than anything else in his prowlings round the country.

Ratoneau, coming out with a sulky, scowling face from his interview with the Prefect, happened to look up as he passed Simon, and the fellow's expression struck him oddly. It was full of intelligence, and of a queer kind of sympathy. He had noticed it before. Simon had made himself useful to him in several underhand ways.

"What do you want?" he said, stopping suddenly.

Simon stepped up close to him, so that neither sentries nor passers-by might hear.

"Me? I want nothing. I was only thinking that Monsieur le Général had been annoyed. A thousand pardons! I was only wondering—well, I have my provocations too, plenty of them!"

"I'll be bound you have, in such a service as yours," said the General, staring at him. "Come to the hotel this evening, and I'll talk to you."

The officers who dined that day with their chief found his company less attractive than ever. He was wrapped up in his own thoughts, and to judge by his face, they were anything but agreeable. The whole mess was glad to be relieved of his scowling presence unusually early. He had drunk little, and went away unusually sober; but that was not always a good sign with him. If he chose to keep a clear brain, it was generally for his own ends, and they were seldom virtuous or desirable.

The General was scarcely in his own room when Simon presented himself, sneaking upstairs with a light tread and slipping noiselessly through the door, his dark face full of eager expectation. He had often wondered whether there might not be some special dirty work to be done for the General, and had taken pains to keep himself under his eye and in his good looks. If the civil power chose to let the Chouans have it all their own way, the military power might one of these days step in effectively. But Simon was not particular. Whatever the work might be, public or private, he was at the service of the authorities. If only the authorities would take his view of their interest and duty!

It was a little difficult to stand unmoved under General Ratoneau's bullying stare. Simon did so, however, his mouth only working a little at the corners. How far might he go with this man? he was asking himself. Ratoneau did not keep him long in suspense. He suddenly took his cigar from his mouth, swore a tremendous oath, and kicked a chair across the room.

"Are you to be trusted, fellow?" he said.

"I have kept a few secrets, monsieur," Simon answered discreetly.

"Then here is another for you. I wish that chair was Monsieur le Baron de Mauves."

"Ah! Indeed! There has been some disagreement. I saw it, when Monsieur le Général came out of the Prefecture this afternoon."

"You saw it, did you? No wonder! I try to hide nothing—why should I? But tell me, I beseech you, why are we in this miserable department cursed with a feather-bed for a governor?"

"If I might venture in this presence to say so," murmured Simon, "I have often asked the same question. A feather-bed, yes—and it would be softer and quieter to kick than that arrangement of wood and nails!" He muttered the last sentence between his teeth with an amused grin, for General Ratoneau, striding round the room in a whirlwind of kicks and oaths, was making far too much noise to hear him.

At last, his wrath having exploded, the General flung himself back on his sofa and said, "The Prefect is a fool, and I hate him."

"Tiens!" Simon whistled softly and long. "This is something new—and serious!" he murmured.

The General turned upon him instantly, with a severe air.

"What is your grievance against the Prefect?"

"Ah—well, monsieur, when you come to grievances—a grievance is a valuable thing—yes, sometimes a small fortune lies in a grievance."

"I believe you are a liar!"

"Pardon, monsieur—what lie have I told?"

"You said you had had provocations. You called Monsieur le Préfet a feather-bed, meaning that he had smothered and stifled you. I don't believe a word of it!"

"Oh! Monsieur le Général is very clever!" Simon ventured on a small laugh.

"Come, don't play with me, you rascal. What complaint have you to make?"

"Monsieur le Général may have had a slight difference to-day with Monsieur le Préfet, but they will be reconciled to-morrow. Why should I give myself away and put myself in their power for nothing?"

"You are a fool! What complaint have you to make against Monsieur le Préfet?"

"I am not a fool, monsieur. That is just it. Therefore, I will not tell you—not yet, at least."

"Then why did you come here? What did you suppose I wanted you for?"

"To do some work, for which I might possibly be paid."

"Is it a question of pay?"

"Partly, monsieur. I made some valuable discoveries a week or two ago, and they have turned out of no use whatever. Here am I still an ordinary police officer, my work not acknowledged in any way, by praise, pay, or promotion. I tried on my own account to verify my discoveries and to find out more. This day, this very morning, I am warned to let the whole thing alone, to say nothing, even to the commissary of police."

The General hesitated. He was grave and thoughtful enough now.

He took out five napoleons and pushed them across the table to Simon, who picked them up quickly and greedily.

"Merci, Monsieur le Général!"

"Chouannerie?" said Ratoneau.

Simon grinned.

"Ah, monsieur, this is not enough to make me safe. I must have five thousand francs at least, to carry me away out of the Prefect's reach, if I tell his little secrets to Monsieur le Général."

"Five thousand devils! Do you think I am made of money? What do I want with your miserable secrets? What are the Chouans to me? The Prefect may be a Chouan himself, I dare say: stranger things have happened."

Simon shrugged his shoulders. His face was full of cunning and of secret knowledge.

"If Monsieur le Général wants a real hold over Monsieur le Préfet," he said, with his eyes fixed on Ratoneau's face—"why then, these secrets of mine are worth the money. Of course, there is another thing for me to do. I can go to Paris and lay the whole thing before the Minister of Police or Monsieur le Comte Réal. I had thought of that. But—the Government is generally ungrateful—and if there were any private service to be done for Monsieur le Général, I should like it better. Besides, it is just possible that I might be doing harm to some of your friends, monsieur."

"My friends? How?"

"Ah! voilà! I can mention no names," said Simon.

The General took out his pocket-book and gave him a note for a thousand francs.

"Out with it, fellow. I hate mysteries," he said.

"Pardon, Monsieur le Général! I said five thousand."

"Well, there are two more. Not another penny till you have explained yourself. And then, if I am not satisfied, I shall turn you over to my guard to be flogged for theft and lying. And I doubt if they will leave much in your pockets."

"You treat me like a Jew, monsieur!"

"You are a Jew. Go on. What are these grand discoveries that Monsieur le Préfet will have nothing to do with?"

"A Chouan plot, monsieur. The conspirators have met, more than once, I believe, at Monsieur de la Marinière's house, Les Chouettes. They were there that day, when Monsieur le Préfet and Monsieur le Général breakfasted with him. That day when we met a herd of cows in the lane—"

"Hold your tongue, you scoundrel. You are telling me a pack of lies. The place was quiet and empty, no one there but ourselves. Why, we strolled about there the whole afternoon without seeing a single living creature except a little girl gathering flowers in the meadow."

"Ah, monsieur! See what it is to be an agent de police. To have eyes and ears, and to know how to use them! Worth a reward, is it not? I had not been an hour at Les Chouettes before I knew everything."

And five minutes had not passed before General Ratoneau was in possession of all that Simon knew or suspected. Every one was implicated; master, servants, the four guests, whose voices he had recognised as he prowled in the wood, Angelot, and even the child Henriette.

"Gathering flowers in the meadow!" the spy laughed maliciously. "She ought to be in prison at this moment with her father and her cousin."

"Sapristi! And the Prefect knew all this?" growled the General.

"I told him at the time, monsieur. As he was strolling about after breakfast with Monsieur de la Marinière, I called him aside and told him. Of course I expected an order to arrest the whole party. We were armed, we could have done it very well, even then, though they outnumbered us. Since then I have viewed the ground again, and caught the Baron d'Ombré breakfasting there, the most desperate Chouan in these parts. I questioned old Joubard the farmer, too, for his loyalty is none too firm. Well, when I came to report this to Monsieur le Préfet, he only told me again to be silent. And this very morning, after conferring with some of these Chouan gentlemen last night at Lancilly, as I happen to know, he told me to let the matter alone, to keep away from Les Chouettes and leave Monsieur de la Marinière to do as he pleased."

The General stared and grunted. Honestly, he was very much astonished.

"That afternoon! The devil! who would have thought it?" he muttered to himself.

"It is not that Monsieur le Préfet is disloyal to the Empire," Simon went on, "though he might easily be made to appear so. It is that he thinks there is no policy like a merciful one. Also he is too soft-hearted, and too kind to his friends."

"By heaven! those are fortunate who find him so."

"The old friends of the country, monsieur. It is amazing how they hang together. Monsieur Joseph de la Marinière is brother of Monsieur Urbain, Monsieur Ange is Monsieur Urbain's son, Monsieur le Comte de Sainfoy is their cousin—and I heard the servants saying, only last night, how beautiful the two young people looked, handing the coffee together—though I should certainly have thought, myself, that Monsieur le Comte would have made a better marriage than that for his daughter. But they say the young gentleman's face—"

"Stop your fool's chatter!" cried the General, furiously.

"But that is just what I said, monsieur, to the Prefect's fellow who told me. I said this young Angelot was a silly boy who cared for nothing but practical jokes. Besides, if he is mixed up in Chouan conspiracies, Monsieur de Sainfoy could hardly afford—and after all, cousins are cousins. You may be very intimate with a cousin, but it does not follow—does it, monsieur?"

"Once for all, put that foolery out of your head. Now listen. You have told me your grievance against the Prefect. I will tell you mine."

And the police officer listened with all his ears, while General Ratoneau told him his story of last night and to-day.

"Ah!" he said thoughtfully—"I see—I see very well. Monsieur le Comte is a foolish gentleman, and Madame la Comtesse is a wise lady. Then Monsieur Urbain de la Marinière—he is the friend of both—he visited Monsieur le Général to-day."

This was a touch of curiosity, which the General did not satisfy, for he saw no good to be gained, at present, by mixing up Urbain's name in the business. He had made a good suggestion, which had failed. The General was aware that in consulting Simon he might be entering on dark ways where no gentleman would follow him. Simon's help might mean a good deal. It might mean arrests rather too near Monsieur Urbain to be pleasant. On one thing the General was resolved; by hook or by crook, by fair means or foul, Hélène de Sainfoy should become his wife. With her mother on his side, he suspected that any means would in the end be forgiven. He was never likely again to have such an opportunity of marrying into the old noblesse. Personally, Hélène attracted him; he had been thinking of her a good deal that day.

"Monsieur de la Marinière—" he said rather gruffly—"Yes, he came to see me. He is of Madame de Sainfoy's opinion—he is a sensible man. No one would be more angry at your idiotic stories about his son. Now what next? I come down on the Prefect with your information, and demand the arrest of all these people, unless—hein?"

"There are objections to that plan, monsieur."

"What are they?"

"Well, to begin with, Monsieur le Préfet may not be managed so easily. He is quite capable of going to Paris and laying the whole case before the Emperor, who respects him. He might point out Monsieur Joseph de la Marinière's close relationship with all these people who have rallied to the Empire. He might make it appear like personal spite of yours, monsieur, because Monsieur de Sainfoy had refused you his daughter. And such a course would spoil your chance in another way, monsieur. It would make all the family hate you. Even Madame la Comtesse could hardly be on your side, if you had done that. And besides, it would kill at one blow all my chances in this department. I think we must go to work more quietly, monsieur. At least, I think we must keep threats and arrests for a last resort, now that you have told me everything."

"Then you would say no more to the Prefect?"

"Not another word, monsieur. I would be silent. I would appear to accept the Prefect's decision, and Monsieur de Sainfoy's answer. But after a few days I would make some pretext for going to Paris. I am going there myself next week; I have leave to visit my old father. Then, monsieur, by spending a little money at the centre of things—well, a thunderbolt out of a clear sky is very effective, monsieur, and that is what we will try to manufacture."

Simon grinned and licked his lips.

"Then what have I paid you three thousand one hundred francs for, rascal, if the information about all this Chouannerie is to be of no use?"

"Well, of course, it is at Monsieur le Général's service. It gives him a hold over Monsieur le Préfet, at any time. That was desired, I understood. All I say is, I would not use it just yet. The circumstances are delicate. When I sold the information, and dirt cheap too, I knew nothing of all the interesting romance Monsieur le Général has told me. An affair of marriage wants tender handling. This one, especially, wants very clever management. If I, in Monsieur le Général's place, meant to be the husband of Mademoiselle de Sainfoy, I would not begin by doing anything to make myself still more odious in the eyes of her friends and relations."

"Still more odious, fellow! What do you mean?"

"Pardon! I am only arguing from your own words, monsieur. You told me what her father said, and what Monsieur le Préfet said. One makes one's deductions, hein!"

"Ah! You had better not be impudent. I am not a person to be played with, Monsieur Simon!"

"Heaven forbid! I have the deepest respect for Monsieur le Général. And now let me explain my plan a little further."

"Hold your tongue with your infernal plans, and let me think," said Ratoneau.

He got up and began pacing up and down the room with his head bent, in a most unusually thoughtful state of mind. The dark, treacherous eyes of Simon followed him as he walked. His brain was working too, much more swiftly and sharply than the General's. This little affair was going to bring him in considerably more than five thousand francs, or he would know the reason why. Presently he spoke in a low, cautious voice.

"The person to approach is Monsieur le Duc de Frioul. A direct order from His Majesty would be the quickest and most certain way of bringing the marriage about. It is not a police question, that. Monsieur le Général has certainly deserved the favour, and the Emperor does not very often refuse officers in matters of this kind."

"Mille tonnerres, Simon, you talk like an ambassador," said Ratoneau, with a laugh. "Yes, I know Duroc; but there was never any love lost between us. However, I might get at him through Monge, and other people. Sapristi, Monge will have enough to do for me!" He was thinking aloud. But now he turned on his counsellor with sudden fierceness.

"And am I to leave this Chouan plot to go its own way under the Prefect's protection?" he said. "A pretty idea, that!"

"Ah! when once Monsieur le Général has peacefully secured his prize, then he can do as he thinks right about public affairs," said Simon, with a sneer.

"Then I can punish my enemies, hein?" said Ratoneau.

"You can indeed, monsieur. With my information, you might very probably ruin Monsieur le Préfet, besides causing the arrest of Monsieur de la Marinière, his nephew, Monsieur d'Ombré, and several other gentlemen whom I shall be able to point out. You could make a clean sweep of Chouannerie in Anjou, monsieur. It is very desirable. All I say is, make sure of your wife first."

Still Ratoneau walked up and down the room. With arms folded and head bent, he looked more le gros caporal than ever.

Presently he stopped short and turned to Simon.

"Get along with you, fellow, and hold your tongue," he said. "I will have nothing to do with your dirty tricks. I will settle the matter with Monsieur le Préfet."

"But me, monsieur? What will become of me?"

"What do I care! A snake in the grass, like you, can look after himself."

"But my other two thousand francs, Monsieur le Général?"

"You shall have them when the affair is settled. Do you hear me? Go—or wait to be kicked. Which shall it be?"

CHAPTER XIV

"Ah!" Angelot gave a choked cry, and stamped violently in the sand. "Ah! Ratoneau or a convent! Dieu! Not while I live!"

"Very fine to say so now!" said Monsieur Joseph, shaking his head.

He was ready to go out shooting in the fresh morning air. His gun leaned against the bench where he was sitting, and his dog watched him with eager eyes. His delicate face was dark with melancholy disgust as he looked at the boy he loved, tramping restlessly up and down between him and the fir trees.

"You don't listen to me, Uncle Joseph; you don't understand me!" Angelot cried out passionately. "What do you take me for? It was for her sake that I answered as I did. It was because she had told me, one minute before, that her mother would kill her if she knew that she—that I—"

He sprang to the bench, threw himself down by Monsieur Joseph, flung his arm around his shoulders.

"Ah, little uncle, voyons, tell me everything. You said you would help me—"

"Help you! I am well repaid when I try to help you!" said Joseph, with a short laugh.

"But that was not the way! Come, come!" and Angelot laid his head against the little uncle's shoulder, coaxing and caressing him as he might have done ten years before, as Riette would do now.

"Ah, diable! what would you have? I offered them you in the place of Ratoneau or a convent, and you would not even wait to hear what they said. Nonsense about her mother! Mothers do not kill their children in these days. Mademoiselle is a little extravagant."

"I don't believe it. She knows her mother. I think Madame de Sainfoy would stop at nothing—no ill-treatment—to force her own way. I saw it in her face, I met her eyes when you dragged me into the room. Uncle Joseph, I tell you she hates me already, and if she thinks I am an obstacle to her plans, she will never let me see Hélène again."

"Where were you, then, when I called you, good-for-nothing?"

"I was on the stairs, talking to her. Her mother had sent her out of the room—"

"On my word, you snatch your opportunities!"

"Of course! And when you were young—"

"There—no impertinence—"

"Dear uncle, I asked you days ago to talk to my father and mother. Why did you never do it? Then I might have been beforehand with that man—as to him, of course, he is an utter impossibility, and if Cousin Hervé sees that, we are safe—but still—"

"Ah! there is a 'but' in the affair, I assure you. Madame would do anything for a nearer connection with her beloved Empire—and Ratoneau might be Napoleon's twin-brother, but that is a detail—and not only madame, your father is on the same side."

"My father!"

"He thinks there could not be a more sensible marriage. The daughter of the Comte de Sainfoy—a distinguished general of division; diable! what can anybody want more? So my Angelot, I was not a false prophet, it seems to me, when I felt very sure that what you asked me was hopeless. Your father would have been against you, for the sake of the Sainfoys; your mother, for opposite reasons. There was one chance, Hervé himself. I saw that he was very angry at the Ratoneau proposal; I thought he might snatch at an alternative. I still think he might have done so, if you had not behaved like a maniac. It was the moment, Angelot; such moments do not return. I was striking while the iron was hot—you, you only, made my idea useless. You made me look even more mad and foolish than yourself—not that I cared for that. As to danger from her mother, why, after all, her father is the authority."

"Ah, but you are too romantic," sighed Angelot. "He would never have accepted me. He would never really oppose his wife, if her mind was set against him."

"He opposes her now. He plainly said that his daughter should marry a gentleman, therefore not Ratoneau. And where have all your fine presumptuous hopes flown to, my boy? The other day you found yourself good enough for Mademoiselle Hélène."

"Perhaps I do still," Angelot said, and laughed. "But I did not then quite understand the Comtesse. I know now that she detests me. Then, too, she had not seen or thought of Ratoneau—Dieu! What profanation! Was it quite new, the terrible idea? I saw the brute—pah! We were handing the coffee—"

"Yes," said Monsieur Joseph. "As far as I know, the seed was sown, the plant grew and flowered, all in that one evening, my poor Angelot. Well—I hope all is safe now, but women are very clever, and there is your father, too—he is very clever. If it is not this marriage, it will be another—but you are not interested now; you have put yourself out of the question."

"Don't say that, Uncle Joseph—and don't imagine that your troubles are over. You will have to do a good deal more for me yet, and for Hélène." He spoke slowly and dreamily, then added with a gesture of despair—"But my father—how could he! Why, the very sight of the man—"

"Ah! Very poetical, your dear father, but not very sentimental. I told him so. He said the best poetry was the highest good sense. I do not quite understand him, I confess. Allons! I am afraid I do. He is a philosopher. He also—well, well!"

"He also—what?"

"Nothing," said Monsieur Joseph, shortly. "What is to be done then, to help you?"

"I am afraid—for her sake—I must not go quite so much to Lancilly. Not for a few days, at least, till last night is forgotten. I cannot meet her before all those people, with their eyes upon me. I believe Madame de Sainfoy saw that I was lying, that I would give my life for what I seemed to refuse."

"Do you think so? No, no, she laughed and teased and questioned me with the others."

"Nevertheless, I think so. But I must know that Hélène is well and safe and not tormented. Uncle Joseph, if you could go there a little oftener—you might see her sometimes—"

"How often?"

"Every two days, for instance?"

Monsieur Joseph smiled sweetly.

"No, mon petit. What should take me to Lancilly every two days? I have not much to say to Hervé; his ideas are not mine, either on sport or on politics. And as to Madame Adélaïde—no—we do not love each other. She is impatient of me—I distrust her. She has Urbain, and one in the family is enough, I think. Voyons! Would your Mademoiselle Moineau do any harm to Riette?"

"Ah! But no! I believe she is a most excellent woman."

"Only a little sleepy—hein? Well, I will change my mind about that offer I refused. I will send Riette every day to learn needlework and Italian with her cousins. She will teach more than she learns, by the bye! Yes, our little guetteuse shall watch for you, Angelot. But on one condition—that she knows no more than she does already. You can ask her what questions you please, of course—but no letters or messages, mind; I trust to your honour. I will not have the child made a go-between in my cousin's house, or mixed up with matters too old for her. She knows enough already to do what you want, to tell you that Mademoiselle Hélène is safe and well. I will have nothing more, you understand. But I think you will be wise to keep away, and this plan may make absence bearable."

He turned his anxious, smiling face to Angelot. And thus the entire reconciliation was brought about; the two understood and loved each other better than ever before, and Riette, as she had herself suggested, was to take her part in helping Angelot.

Neither Monsieur Urbain, in his great discretion, nor his wife, in her extreme dislike of Lancilly and all connected with it, chose to say a word either to Angelot or his uncle about the strange little scene that had closed the dinner-party. It was better forgotten, they thought. And Angelot was too proud, too conscious of their opinion, to speak of it himself.

So the three talked that night about Sonnay-le-Loir and the markets there, and about the neighbours that Urbain had met, and about certain defects in one of his horses, and then about the coming vintage and its prospects.

Urbain fetched down a precious book, considerably out of date now, the Théâtre d'Agriculture of Olivier de Serres, Seigneur du Pradel, and began studying, as he did every year, the practical advice of that excellent writer on the management of vineyards. The experience of Angelot, gained chiefly in wandering round the fields with old Joubard, differed on some points from that of Monsieur de Serres. He argued with his father, not at all in the fashion of a young man hopelessly in love; but indeed, though Hélène was the centre of all his thoughts, he was far from hopeless.

There was a bright spring of life in Angelot, a faith in the future, which kept him above the most depressing circumstances. The waves might seem overwhelming, the storm too furious; Angelot would ride on the waves with an unreasoning certainty that they would finally toss him on the shore of Paradise. Had not Hélène kissed him? Could he not still feel the sweet touch of her lips, the velvet softness of that pale cheek? Could his eyes lose the new dream in their sleepy dark depths, the dream of waking smiles and light in hers, of bringing colour and joy into that grey, mysterious world of sadness! No; whatever the future might hold—and he did not fear it—Angelot could say to his fate:—

"To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived to-day."

There was such a glory of happiness behind the present clouds that the boy had never seemed to his mother more light-hearted. She listened to his talk with his father, the smiling dispute as to what age of the moon was the most lucky for beginning the vintage. Monsieur de Serres, with a kindly word of indulgence for those who thought much of the moon, contented himself with recommending fine weather and a convenient day. Joubard, and Angelot with him, held to the old country superstition of the waning moon.

This would throw the vintage later than Monsieur Urbain wished, and he pointed out that De Serres was a sensible man and a philosopher. Silly fancies, lunatical, astrological, were not much in his line.

"He is also a Calvinist," said Madame de la Marinière. "He has no religion—no real religion. He believes in nothing but what he can see. Take my advice, leave Olivier on the shelf, and stick to the old ways of the country."

"Ah, bah! and do you know why my farming has always succeeded?" said her husband, laughing. "Because I have been guided by the wisdom of De Serres. He is a rare man. He has as little superstition as Montaigne himself."

"And is as worthy of a bonfire!" said Anne, but she smiled.

She was sitting at her tapestry frame, beside her two wax candles, and while her needle went industriously in and out, her eyes were constantly lifted to where those two sat talking. Urbain turned over the leaves of his fat, red-edged quarto, lingering lovingly on favourite pages. Angelot laughed and chattered, leaning easily on the table. The adventure of last night seemed to have left no impression upon him.

"How foolish that dear Joseph was!" his mother thought. "But oh, what a contrast to that odious dinner-party! Now, this is peace, this is what I have prayed for, to have them both happy at home, and free of Lancilly."

But when she kissed her boy that night, looking eagerly into his face, something cold touched her heart. For his look was far away, and the smile in his eyes was not for her at all.

"Urbain," she said, "are you sure that all is right with Ange?"

"All, my beloved, except a little superstition about the moon, of which life will cure him," her husband answered with his queer smile.

"The moon! Yes, he talked last night about the moon," she said. "That is what I mean, Urbain, not your moon for the vintage."

"Oh! la belle Hélène!" he said lightly. "Don't derange yourself. I did not tell you—I found her mother this morning in a resolute state of mind. She does not intend to have the young lady on her hands long. If not one marriage, it will be another, you will see. Hervé will find he must leave the matter to his wife. Ange! bah! children's fancies are not worth a thought. If you lived more in the world, you would be happier, my poor Anne."

"I don't think so," Anne said as she turned away.

The next morning Monsieur Urbain stayed indoors till breakfast time. This was often enough a habit of his, but he was generally buried in his books and did not care to be disturbed. To-day he wandered about the house, took a turn into the porch, observed the clouds, looked at his watch, and behaved generally with a restlessness that Anne would have found unaccountable; but she was out with a sick woman in the village. She came in soon after ten, followed by Angelot from his shooting.

They sat down to breakfast, that warm day, with doors and windows open. The old, low room with its brick-paved floor was shady and pleasant, opening on the stone court where the porch was; the polished table was loaded with fruit. Angelot's dog lay stretched in a patch of sunshine; he was ordered out several times, but always came back. When the heat became too much he rose panting, and flung his long body into the shade; then the chilly bricks drove him back into the sun again.

The three were rather silent. Urbain, who always led their talk, was a little preoccupied that morning. After finishing his second large slice of melon, he looked up at Angelot and said, "After breakfast I will go with you to La Joubardière. We must settle with Joubard about the vintage; it is time things were fixed. I say the first of October. As to his moons, I cannot listen to such absurdities. He must arrange what suits me and the weather and the vines. First of all, me."

"That is decided," said Angelot, smiling. "Joubard will shake his head, but he will obey you. You are a tyrant in your way."

"Perhaps!" Urbain said, screwing up his mouth. "A benevolent despot. Obedience is good for the soul—n'est-ce pas, madame? I give my commands for the good of others, and pure reason lies behind them. What is it, Négo?"

The dog lifted his black head and growled. There was a sharp clank of footsteps on the stones outside.

"A bas, Négo!" cried Angelot, as a soldier, with a letter in his hand, appeared at the window.

The dog sprang up, barking furiously, about to fly at him.

"See to your dog! Take him away!" Monsieur Urbain shouted to Angelot.

The young man threw himself on the dog and dragged him, snarling, out of the room. Anne looked up with surprise at the soldier, who saluted, standing outside the low window-sill. Urbain went to him, and took the letter from his hand.

"It is Monsieur de la Marinière?" said the man. "At your service. From Monsieur le Général. Is there an answer?"

"Wait a moment, my man," said Urbain.

He broke the large red seal, standing by the window. One glance showed him the contents of the letter, for they were only three words and an initial.

—"Tout va bien. R."—

But though the words were few, their significance was great, and it kept the sturdy master of La Marinière standing motionless for a minute or two in a dream, with the open letter in his hand, forgetful alike of the messenger waiting outside, and of his wife behind him at the table. A dark stain of colour stole up into his sunburnt face, his strong mouth quivered, then set itself obstinately. So! this thing was to happen. Treason to Hervé, was it? No, it was for his good, for everybody's good. Sentiment was out of place in a political matter such as this. Sacrifice of a girl? well, what was gained in the world without sacrifice? Let her think herself Iphigenia, if she chose; but, after all, many girls as noble and as pretty had shown her the way she was to go.

"All goes well!" he muttered between his teeth. "This gentleman is impatient; he does not let the grass grow. Odd enough that we have to thank our dear Joseph for suggesting it!" Then he woke to outside things, among them the waiting soldier, standing there like a wooden image in the blaze of sunshine.

"No answer, my friend," he said.

He took out a five-franc piece and gave it to the man, not without a glance at the splendid Roman head upon it.

"He only needs a little idealising!" he said to himself; then aloud to the soldier: "My best compliments to Monsieur le Général. Go to the kitchen; they will give you something to eat and drink after your ride."

"Merci, monsieur!" the soldier saluted and went.

Urbain folded the letter, put it into his pocket, and returned silently to his breakfast. Something about him warned his wife that it would be better not to ask questions; but Anne seldom observed such warnings, for she did not know what it was to be afraid of Urbain, though she was often angry with him. With Angelot it was different; he had sometimes reason to fear his father; but for Anne, the tenderness was always greater than the severity.

They were alone for a few minutes, Angelot not having reappeared. While Urbain hurriedly devoured his sorrel and eggs, his wife gazed at him with anxious eyes across the table.

"You correspond with that odious General!" she said. "What about, my dear friend? What can he have to say to you?"

"Ah, bah! the curiosity of women!" said Monsieur Urbain, bending over his plate.

"Yes," Anne said, smiling faintly. "It exists, and therefore it must be gratified. Is not that a doctrine after your own heart? What was that letter about, tell me? You could not hide that it interested you deeply."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Remember, we never talk politics, you and I. Not even the politics of the department."

"It has something to do with the Chouans, then? With Joseph? Ah, but do not trust that man, Urbain! he has a horrid face. Did you see him yesterday? Did he say anything about Joseph—and about Ange? He has a spite against Ange, I believe."

"Do not be uneasy," Monsieur Urbain replied. "I did see him yesterday, if you must know, my dear Anne. He is friendly; well, you can see the letter. I do not choose to explain it altogether, but it speaks for itself."

He took out the letter, unfolded it, and handed it to her with a curious smile.

"Tout va bien!" Anne read aloud. "What does he mean?"

"He means, I suppose, that my mind may be at rest. You see that he is in a good temper."

"It looks like it, certainly. But that is strange, too. Had Hervé de Sainfoy sent him an answer? When you saw him, did he know—"

"Yes, he knew."

"How did he bear it?"

"Like a man."

"Really! One dislikes him a little less for that. But still, Urbain, why should you have anything to do with him? Is it not enough that the Prefect is so friendly to us all? With his protection, Joseph and Ange are not in any real danger."

"It is best to have two strings to one's bow," answered Urbain. "I prefer Ratoneau a friend to Ratoneau an enemy."

"I should like best no Ratoneau at all," said Anne. She flicked the letter back to him from the tips of her fingers, lightly and scornfully. "How could Adélaïde talk to him for a whole evening!" she sighed.

"Adélaïde is a woman of the world, as we have decided before," said Urbain. "Say no more; here is the boy. It is best that he should know nothing of this—do you understand?"

Anne understood, or thought she did; and a nod and smile from her went a long way towards reassuring Angelot, who had been a little puzzled by the sudden appearance of the soldier. But he was not curious; his father was by no means in the habit of telling him everything, making indeed a thin cloud of wilful mystery about some of his doings. It had always been so; and Angelot had grown up with a certain amount of blind trust in the hand which had guided his mother and himself through the thorny years of his childhood.

At this moment he was distracted by a very serious attack on Négo. The dog would have to be shot, Monsieur Urbain said, if he received people so savagely; and in defending Négo the rest of Angelot's breakfast-time was spent.

Later on he was a little surprised by his father's telling him to go alone to La Joubardière and arrange about the vintage. Urbain had remembered business, he said, which called him to Lancilly. He turned away and left the room without a word, without seeing, or perhaps choosing to see, the sudden flame of irritation in Anne's dark eyes, the light of another feeling in Angelot's.

The young fellow lingered a moment in the dining-room window, and watched the sturdy figure walking away in linen clothes and a straw hat, the shoulders slightly bent from study, the whole effect that of honest strength and capacity, not at all of intrigue and ruse. Then he turned round and met his mother's eyes. For a moment it seemed as if they must read each other's soul. But Anne only said: "Do not delay, my boy. Go to Joubard; arrange things to please your father. We must remember; he is wiser than we are; he does the best for us all."

"Yes, my little mother," said Angelot. "Only—Négo shall not be shot. Yes, I am going this instant."

He took her hand and kissed it. She pushed back his hair and kissed his forehead.

"And what are you going to do?" he said. "Come with me to see the old Joubards."

"No, no. I must go to the church," she said. "I was hurried this morning."

As Urbain crossed the valley, going through the little hamlet, down the white stony lane, between high hedges, then by field paths across to the lower poplar-shaded road, then along by the slow, bright stream to the bridge and the first white houses of Lancilly, he thought with some amusement and satisfaction of that morning's diplomacy. He had not the smallest intention of taking his dear and pretty Anne into his confidence. The little plot, which Adélaïde and he had hatched so cleverly, must remain between them and the General.

This power of suggesting was a wonderful thing, truly. A word had been enough to set the whole machinery going. If he rightly understood that Tout va bien, it meant that the Prefect was ready at once to do his part. That seemed a little strange; but after all, De Mauves would not have reached his present position without some cleverness to help him, and no doubt he saw, as Urbain did, the excellence of this arrangement for everybody all round. Hervé de Sainfoy was really foolish; his own enemy: Urbain and Adélaïde were his friends; they knew how to make use of the mammon of unrighteousness. The advantages of such a connection with the Empire were really uncountable. Urbain was quite sure that he was justified in plotting against Hervé for his good. Did he not love him like a brother? Would he not have given him the last penny in his purse, the last crust if they were starving? And as for misleading Anne a little, that too seemed right to his conscience. It was only a case of economising truth, after all. In the end, the Ratoneau connection would be useful in saving Joseph and his friends, no doubt, from some of the consequences of their foolishness.

It was with the serenity of success and conscious virtue, deepened and brightened by the joy of pleasing the beautiful Adélaïde, that Urbain, finding her alone, put the General's letter into her hand.

There was an almost vulture look in the fair face as she stooped over it.

"Ah—and what does this mean?"

"It means," Urbain said, "that General Ratoneau has seen the Prefect, and that that excellent man is ready to oblige him—and you, madame."

"Me?" Adélaïde looked up sharply, with a sudden flush. "I hope you gave no message from me."

"How could I? you sent none. I am to be trusted, I assure you. I simply hinted that if the affair could be managed from outside, you would not be too much displeased."

"Nor would you," she said.

"No—no, I should not." He spoke rather slowly, stroking his face, looking at her thoughtfully. This pale passion of eagerness was not becoming, somehow, to his admired Adélaïde.

"Nor would you," she repeated. "Come, Urbain, be frank. You know it is necessary, from your point of view, that Hélène should be married soon. You know that silly boy of yours fancies himself in love with her."

"It would not be unnatural. All France might do the same. But pardon me, I do not know it."

"You mean that he has not confided in you. Well, well, do not lay hold of my words; you had eyes the night before last; you saw what I saw, what every one must have seen. You confessed as much to me yesterday, so do not contradict yourself now."

"Very well—yes!" Urbain smiled and bowed. "Let us agree that my poor boy may have such a fancy. But what does it matter?"

"Of course it does not really matter, because such a marriage would be absolutely impossible for Hélène. But it is better for a young man not to have such wild ambitions in his head at all. You know I am right. You agree with me. That is one reason why you are working with me now."

"It is true, madame. You are right. But did it not seem to you, the other night, that Angelot himself saw the impossibility—"

"No, it did not," she said, and her eyes flashed. "He had to protect himself from his uncle's madness—that was nothing. By the bye, that wonderful brother of yours has changed his mind about Henriette. He sent her here this morning with a letter to me, and she is now doing her lessons with Sophie and Lucie."

"I am delighted to hear it," said Urbain, absently. "But now, to return to our subject—the Ratoneau marriage—" he paused an instant, and whatever his words and actions may have been, Madame de Sainfoy was a little punished for her scorn of his son by the accent of utter disgust with which he dwelt on the General's name.

For she felt it, and he had the small satisfaction of seeing that she did. She had trodden on her worm a little too hard, in telling Ange de la Marinière's father that he might as well dream of a princess as of Hélène de Sainfoy.

"Yes, yes," she said hastily, and smiled brilliantly on Urbain as much as to say, "Dear friend, I was joking. We understand each other.—Tell me everything you did yesterday—what he said, and all about it," she went on aloud. "Ah, Hervé!" as her husband sauntered into the room—"do have the goodness to fetch me those patterns of silk hangings from the library. This dear Urbain has come at the right moment to be consulted about them."