"One has no idea what it costs such people as that to be generous and obliging," remarked the hunchback, laughing.

Then becoming serious again, he said: "My dear child, what I have just seen and heard gives me such a clear understanding of the nobility of your heart and the firmness of your character, that I realise the futility of any renewed efforts in relation to the matter that brought me here. If I am mistaken, if you are not Madame de Beaumesnil's daughter, you will naturally persist in your denial; if, on the contrary, I have divined the truth, you will still persist in denying it, actuated, I am sure, by some secret but honourable motive. I shall insist no further. One word more: I have been deeply touched by the feeling that prompted you to defend Madame de Beaumesnil's memory against suspicions which may be entirely without foundation. If you were not so proud, I should tell you that your disinterestedness is all the more noble from the fact that your situation is so precarious; and, by the way, let me say right here that, though M. Bouffard has deprived me of the pleasure of being of service to you this time, I want you to promise me, my dear child, that in future you will apply only to me."

"And to whom else could I apply without humiliation, M. le marquis?"

"Thank you, my dear child, but no more, M. le marquis, I beg. In our recent grave conversation I had no time to protest against this ceremonious appellation; but now we are old friends, no more M. le marquis, I beseech you. That is agreed, is it not?" asked the hunchback, cordially offering his hand to the young girl, who pressed it gratefully as she exclaimed:

"Ah, monsieur, such kindness and such generous confidence more than consoles me for the humiliation I suffered in your presence."

"Dismiss that from your mind entirely, my dear child. The insult you received only proves that the insolent stranger is as foolish as he is coarse. It is doing him entirely too much honour to retain a lasting remembrance of his offence."

"You are right, monsieur," replied Herminie, though she still blushed deeply with wounded pride and indignation; "contempt, the most profound contempt is all that such an insult merits."

"Undoubtedly; but, unfortunately, your loneliness and unprotected condition are probably to a great extent accountable for this unwarranted presumption on the part of a stranger, my poor child, so, as you permit me to talk in all sincerity, why have you never thought of boarding with some respectable elderly woman, instead of living alone?"

"I have thought of doing that more than once, but it is difficult to find the right person—that is when one is as exigeante as I am," she added, smiling.

"You admit that you are very exigeante, then?" asked the marquis, also smiling.

"Really I cannot help it, it seems to me, monsieur; could I find such surroundings as these in the home of a person whose means are as modest as mine? Besides, I ought not to say it, perhaps, but I am so keenly sensitive to certain faults of education and manner that I should positively suffer at times. It is silly and ridiculous, I know, for lack of breeding does not lessen the virtue and kindness of most of the people of the class to which I belong, but to which my education has rendered me somewhat superior. Still it is intensely repugnant to me, and I consequently prefer to live alone, in spite of the many inconveniences of such an isolated position. Another objection is that I should be under an obligation to any person who would receive me into her family, and I fear that I might be made to feel this obligation too much."

"All this is very natural," said the hunchback, after a moment's reflection. "It would scarcely be possible for one of your proud nature to act or feel otherwise, and this pride, which I admire so much in you, has been, and I am sure always will be, your best safeguard. But this will not prevent me, with your permission, of course, from coming now and then to see if I can serve you in any way."

"Can you doubt the pleasure, the very great pleasure it will give me to see you?"

"I will not so wrong you as to doubt it, my dear child."

Seeing M. de Maillefort rise to take leave, Herminie felt strongly tempted to make some inquiry concerning Ernestine de Beaumesnil, whom he had probably seen ere this; but the young girl feared she might betray herself and arouse M. de Maillefort's suspicions by speaking of her sister.

"Farewell, my dear child," said the marquis, rising. "I came here in the hope of finding a daughter to love and protect, and I shall not return with an empty heart. And now again, farewell—and au revoir."

"And soon, I hope, M. le marquis," responded Herminie, with respectful deference.

"Nonsense!" said the hunchback, smiling. "There is no marquis here, but an old man who loves you,—yes, loves you with all his heart. Don't forget that."

"Oh, I shall never forget it, monsieur."

"Good, that promise atones for everything. Once more au revoir, my child."

And M. de Maillefort departed, still in doubt as to Herminie's identity, and no less in doubt in regard to the best means of carrying out Madame de Beaumesnil's last wishes.

The young girl, left alone, reflected long upon the incidents of the day, which, after all, had proved a happy one for her, for by refusing a gift which proved her mother's deep solicitude for her welfare, but which might compromise that mother's memory, the young girl had gained M. de Maillefort's warm friendship.

But the payment made to M. Bouffard by a stranger was a terrible blow to Herminie's pride.

"I must seem despicable, indeed, in the eyes of a person who dared to take such a liberty as that," the proud girl was saying to herself just as there came a timid ring at the door.

Herminie opened it to find herself confronted by M. Bouffard and a stranger.

This stranger was Gerald de Senneterre.

On seeing the Duc de Senneterre, who was an entire stranger to her, Herminie coloured with surprise, and said to M. Bouffard, with much embarrassment:

"I did not expect to have the pleasure of seeing you again so soon, monsieur."

"No more did I, mademoiselle. No more did I! It was this gentleman who forced me to return."

"But I do not know the gentleman," Herminie answered, more and more astonished.

"No; I have not the honour of being known to you, mademoiselle," said Gerald, with an expression of the deepest anxiety on his handsome features, "and yet, I have come to ask a favour of you. I beseech you not to refuse it."

Gerald's handsome face showed so much frankness, his emotion seemed so sincere, his voice was so earnest, his manner so respectful, and his appearance so elegant and distingué, that it never once occurred to Herminie that this could be the stranger she was so bitterly reproaching.

Besides, reassured by M. Bouffard's presence, and unable to imagine what favour the stranger could have come to ask, the duchess, turning to her landlord, said, timidly:

"Will you have the goodness to come in, monsieur?"

And as she spoke, she led the way into her own room.

The young duke had never seen a woman who compared with Herminie in beauty, and this beauty alike of form and feature was greatly enhanced by the dignified modesty of her demeanour.

But when Gerald followed the girl into her room and saw the countless indications of refined habits and exquisite taste everywhere apparent, he felt more and more confused, and in his profound embarrassment he could not utter a word.

Amazed at the stranger's silence, Herminie turned inquiringly to M. Bouffard, who said:

"It will be best to begin at the beginning, my dear young lady. I will explain why this gentleman—"

"Allow me," said Gerald, interrupting M. Bouffard. Then, turning to Herminie, he continued, with a charming mixture of frankness and deference:

"I may as well confess that it is not a favour I have come to ask, but forgiveness."

"Of me, monsieur—and why?" asked Herminie, ingenuously.

"My dear mademoiselle," said M. Bouffard, with a meaning gesture, "this is the young man who paid me that money, you know. I met him just now, and—"

"It was you, monsieur?" cried Herminie, superb in her indignation. And looking Gerald full in the face, she repeated, witheringly:

"It was you?"

"Yes, mademoiselle, but listen, I beg of you."

"Enough, monsieur, enough!" said Herminie. "Such audacity seems inconceivable! You have at least the courage to insult, monsieur," added Herminie, with crushing contempt.

"But, mademoiselle, do not suppose for one moment—" pleaded Gerald.

"Monsieur," said the young girl, again interrupting him, but in a voice that trembled violently, for she could feel tears of grief and humiliation rising to her eyes, "I can only beg that you will leave my house. I am a woman,—and I am alone."

These last words were uttered in such tones of intense sadness that Gerald was moved to tears in spite of himself, and when the young girl raised her head after a violent effort to conquer her emotion, she saw two big tears gleaming in the eyes of the stranger, who, after bowing low without a word, started towards the door.

But M. Bouffard, seizing Gerald by the arm, exclaimed:

"Why, stop a second! You surely are not going like that!"

And we must admit that M. Bouffard added mentally:

"And my little apartment on the third floor, am I to lose my chance of renting that?"

"Monsieur," interposed Herminie, seeing her landlord attempt to detain the offender; "monsieur, I must insist—"

"But, my dear young lady, you certainly ought to know why I brought this young man here," exclaimed M. Bouffard. "You surely cannot suppose that it was with the intention of annoying you. The fact is, I met the young fellow near the barrière, and as soon as I laid eyes on him, I called out, 'Ah, my generous youth, a nice scrape you got me into with your yellow boys. Here they are; take them, and don't let me see any more of them, if you please.' And then I told him how you had felt about the service he had rendered you, and how you had cried and taken on, until monsieur turned red, and then pale, and then green, and finally said to me, apparently quite miserable about what I had told him, 'Ah, monsieur, I have unintentionally insulted a person whose unprotected position renders her all the more worthy of respect. I owe her an apology, and I will make it in your presence, as you were my involuntary accomplice. Come, monsieur, come.' Upon my word of honour, mademoiselle, these were the very words the young man said to me, and somehow what he said touched me. I can't imagine what is the matter with me to-day, I'm as chicken-hearted as a woman. I thought he was right to want to come and apologise to you, so I brought him along, or, rather, he brought me along, for he took me by the arm and dragged me along at the double-quick. In fact, I never walked so fast in my life."

The sincerity of the words was unmistakable, and as Herminie was endowed with a keen sense of justice, and she had been not a little touched by the tears she had seen glittering in Gerald's eyes, she said to the stranger, in a tone which indicated a strong desire to end this painful scene as soon as possible:

"In that case, monsieur, the offence of which I complain was unintentional, and it was not to aggravate the offence that you returned here. I believe this, monsieur, and this should satisfy you, I think."

"If you desire it, mademoiselle, I will leave at once without saying a word in my own defence."

"Do have a little pity, my dear young lady," pleaded M. Bouffard. "You have allowed me to speak, now listen to the gentleman."

Whereupon the Duc de Senneterre, taking Herminie's silence for an assent, said:

"Mademoiselle, this is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I was passing along the street, looking for lodgings, and naturally paused in front of the house as I saw several notices of rooms to rent. I asked permission to inspect the apartments, and going on in advance of the portress, who promised to join me in a minute, I began to ascend the stairs. As I reached the first landing my attention was attracted by a timid, supplicating voice. This voice was yours, mademoiselle, and you were pleading with this gentleman. I paused involuntarily, not from any idle curiosity, but because I could not listen to such a touching appeal unmoved. So I heard all, and my only thought was that a woman was in trouble, and that I could save her, without her even knowing it, so seeing a man come out of your room a few minutes afterwards I called to him."

"Yes," continued M. Bouffard, "and said to me angrily, 'Here is money, pay yourself, and cease to torment a woman, who is only too unhappy already.' If I did not tell you this at first, my dear young lady, it was only because I wanted to have my little joke, and afterwards I was frightened to see how angry you were."

"That is my offence, mademoiselle," continued Gerald. "I yielded to a thoughtless, though not ungenerous impulse, whose deplorable consequences I did not foresee. I unfortunately forgot that the sacred right to render certain services belongs only to tried and trusted friends. I forgot, too, that, however spontaneous and disinterested commiseration may be, it may nevertheless be a cruel insult under some circumstances. When this gentleman told me of your just indignation, mademoiselle, and told me the wrong I had unwittingly done you, I felt it to be my duty as an honourable man to come and beg your pardon, and tell you the simple truth. I had never had the honour of seeing you; I did not even know your name, and I shall probably never see you again, but I wish that I could convince you that I had not the slightest intention of insulting you, and that I never realised the gravity of my offence until now."

Gerald was speaking the truth, and his sincerity, emotion, and tact convinced Herminie that such, indeed, was the case.

Another and entirely different idea also influenced the ingenuous girl, or, rather, an apparently trivial but to her highly significant circumstance, viz., that the stranger was seeking a modest lodging. This convinced her that he was not rich, and that the generosity he had manifested towards her must necessarily have been at the cost of no little personal sacrifice.

These considerations, aided very considerably, perhaps,—and why not, may we ask?—by the influence almost always exerted by a handsome, frank, and expressive face, appeased Herminie's wrath wonderfully. In fact, far from feeling the slightest indignation against Gerald now, she was really touched by the generous impulse to which he had yielded, and which he had just explained with such perfect frankness, and too honest and ingenuous herself to conceal her thoughts, she said to Gerald, with charming simplicity:

"My embarrassment is very great, monsieur, for I must reproach myself for having entirely misinterpreted an act, the kindness of which I now appreciate. I can only beg you to forget the intemperance of my first remarks."

"Permit me to say, on the contrary, that I shall never forget them, mademoiselle," replied Gerald, "for they will always remind me that there is one attribute which should be respected above all others in a woman,—her dignity."

And bowing deferentially to Herminie, Gerald turned to leave the room.

M. Bouffard had listened to the latter part of this conversation in open-mouthed wonder, it being just about as intelligible to him as if it had been carried on in Greek; but now checking Gerald, who had started towards the door, the ex-grocer, evidently with the idea that he was achieving a master-stroke, exclaimed:

"One moment, my good sir, one moment. As mademoiselle is no longer offended with you, there is no reason why you shouldn't take those nice little rooms on the third floor I was telling you about,—a small hall, and two cozy rooms; one that will answer for a sitting-room, and the other for a bedroom—just the thing for a bachelor."

On hearing this proposal, Herminie became very uneasy, for it would have been decidedly unpleasant to see Gerald installed in the same house.

But the young duke promptly replied:

"I have already told you that the rooms would not suit me, my dear sir."

"Yes, because this young lady was offended with you, and it is very unpleasant to be on bad terms with one's fellow tenants. But now this young lady has forgiven you, there is no reason you shouldn't take those nice rooms."

"I am even less inclined to take them now," replied Gerald, venturing a glance at Herminie.

The young girl did not raise her eyes, but she blushed slightly, for she appreciated the delicacy of Gerald's refusal.

"What!" exclaimed M. Bouffard, profoundly astonished; "now you have made up with mademoiselle, you are less inclined to take them than ever? Is it possible that you have noticed any objections to my house since you came back?"

"It is not precisely that which deprives me of the pleasure of taking up my abode under your roof, my dear sir, but—"

"Come, I'll let you have those rooms for two hundred and fifty francs, with a small cellar thrown in, if you want it."

"Impossible, my dear sir, impossible."

"Call it two hundred and forty, then, and say no more about it."

"I am obliged to call your attention to the fact that mademoiselle's room is not the place for this haggling, monsieur."

Then turning to Herminie and bowing profoundly, the young duke said:

"Believe me, mademoiselle, I shall always retain a most delightful recollection of this first and last interview."

The girl bowed graciously, but without raising her eyes, and Gerald departed, resolutely pursued by M. Bouffard, who seemed determined not to lose his prey.

But Gerald remained obdurate in spite of the landlord's tempting offers. The ex-grocer persisted in his efforts, so Gerald, to get rid of him, and perhaps also to have an opportunity to think over his meeting with Herminie, quickened his pace and told the landlord that he intended to extend his walk as far as the fortifications. So he started off, leaving M. Bouffard in despair at having missed this fine opportunity to rent those charming third story rooms.

A road leading to the fortifications intersected the Rue de Monceau near this point. Gerald took it, and then strolled slowly along, absorbed in a profound reverie.

Herminie's rare beauty, as well as her dignity and refinement of manner had made a deep impression on the young duke, and the more he said to himself that he had, of course, seen this charming creature for the first and last time, the more he rebelled against the thought.

Besides, upon analysing or rather comparing his former fancies with his sudden but deep interest in Herminie, and discovering nothing like it in the past, Gerald asked himself, with no little uneasiness:

"What if I should be really caught this time?"

He had just asked himself this question when he was met by an officer of engineers wearing an army redingote without epaulettes, and a big straw hat.

"Why, it's Senneterre!" exclaimed this officer.

The young duke looked up and recognised Captain Comtois, one of his former comrades in the African army.

"How are you, my dear Comtois?" he exclaimed, cordially offering his hand. "I did not expect to see you here, though you are quite in your native element, I must admit," he added, with a glance at the fortifications.

"Yes, my dear fellow, we're making the earth fly and the work is advancing rapidly. I am general-in-chief of that army of labourers and masons you see over there. In Africa, we tore down walls; here, we build them up. Did you come over to look at the works? If you did, I'll show you about."

"A thousand thanks for your kind offer, my dear Comtois, I'll remind you of your promise some day soon."

"Very well, come and take breakfast with me any morning you like. I am living in camp over there. It will remind you of old times; you'll think you're in a Bedouin camp again. Oh, by the way, you remember Clarville, that young lieutenant of spahis who resigned in order that he might have the satisfaction of fighting Colonel Duval a year afterwards?"

"Clarville? Yes, a brave fellow—I remember him perfectly."

"Well, after he resigned, he had very little to live on, and the failure of some bank swept away the little that he had. In fact, if I hadn't happened to come across him, I believe he would have starved. Fortunately, I was able to take him on as overseer, and that pays him a little something."

"Poor fellow! it was a lucky thing for him, though."

"I should think so, particularly as he is married,—a love-match,—that is to say, the girl hadn't a penny, and there are two little children in the bargain, so you can judge of his situation. He manages to make both ends meet, but that is all. I have been to see him. He lives in a side street at the end of the Rue de Monceau."

"At the end of the Rue de Monceau?" asked Gerald, hastily. "I, too, must go and see him."

"He would be delighted, my dear Senneterre, for when misfortunes come, one's visitors are rare."

"What is the number of the house?"

"It is the only house on the street,—a little bit of a house. The devil! There's the second bell. I must leave you, my dear Senneterre, and get my men together. Good-bye; don't forget your promise."

"No, certainly not."

"And I may tell Clarville you're coming to see him?"

"Yes, day after to-morrow."

"It will please him very much; good-bye."

"Good-bye, my dear fellow."

"Don't forget Clarville's address."

"I am not very likely to," thought Gerald. "The street where he lives must skirt the end of the garden of the house where I just saw that adorable girl."

So, while the captain rushed off towards a group of wooden shanties in the distance, Gerald strolled along, a prey to a sort of feverish agitation.

The sun was low in the horizon when he awoke from his reverie.

"I don't know what will come of all this," he said to himself, "but this time, and it is the only time, I feel that I'm gone, absolutely gone, this time!"

In spite of the deep and novel impression made upon Gerald by his interview with Herminie, he had met Ernestine de Beaumesnil; for, in accordance with the plans of the Rochaiguës, the richest heiress in France had directly or indirectly made the acquaintance of the three aspirants for her hand.

A month had passed since these different presentations, and since the first interview between Gerald and Herminie, an interview whose consequences will become apparent later on.

The clock had just struck eleven, and Mlle. de Beaumesnil was sitting alone in her chamber, deeply absorbed in thought. Her girlish face had lost none of its sweetness and candour, though a rather sarcastic, and sometimes almost mournful, smile occasionally flitted across her lips, and one sometimes noticed a resolute expression, which contrasted strangely with the almost childish ingenuousness of her features.

Suddenly Mlle. de Beaumesnil rose, walked to the mantel, and placed her hand on the bell rope; then she paused a moment as if undecided in relation to some important matter.

At last, as if her mind was fully made up, she rang, and almost immediately Madame Laîné, her governess, entered, with an eager, almost obsequious, air.

"Does mademoiselle desire anything?" she asked.

"Sit down, my dear Laîné."

"Mademoiselle is too kind."

"Sit down, I beg. There is something I wish to say to you."

"Only to obey mademoiselle," said the governess, much surprised at this familiarity on the part of her young mistress, who had always treated her heretofore with marked reserve.

"My dear Laîné," said Mlle. de Beaumesnil, in an almost affectionate tone, "you have often told me that I could count upon your attachment."

"Oh, yes, mademoiselle."

"And upon your devotion as well?"

"In life and in death, mademoiselle."

"And also upon your discretion?"

"I only ask that mademoiselle will put me to the test, then she can judge," replied the governess, more and more delighted with this truly promising beginning.

"Very well, I am about to put you to the test."

"How rejoiced I am at such a mark of confidence on mademoiselle's part!"

"Yes, a mark of great confidence, of which I hope you will be found deserving."

"I swear to mademoiselle that—"

"Oh, I believe you," said Ernestine, interrupting these protestations on the part of her governess; "but tell me, nearly a week ago you asked me to give you to-morrow evening, in order that you might attend a small reunion which takes place every Sunday night at the house of one of your friends named—What is the name? I have forgotten it."

"Her name is Madame Herbaut, mademoiselle. This friend of mine has two daughters, and every Sunday she invites a few people of their age to her house. I think I said as much to mademoiselle when I asked her permission to attend the entertainment."

"And who are these young people?"

"The young girls who visit Madame Herbaut are mostly shop-girls, or young women who give music and drawing lessons. There are also several bookkeepers among them. As for the men, they are, for the most part, shop-keepers, or musicians, or lawyer's clerks,—all very respectable young men, I assure you, for Madame Herbaut is very particular about the people she invites, and very naturally, as she has daughters to marry off, and between you and me, mademoiselle, it is to establish them in life that she gives these little reunions."

"My dear Laîné," said Ernestine, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, "I want to attend one of these reunions at Madame Herbaut's."

"Mademoiselle!" exclaimed the governess, thinking her ears must have deceived her, "what did mademoiselle say?"

"I said I wished to attend one of Madame Herbaut's entertainments,—to-morrow evening, for instance."

"Good heavens! Is mademoiselle really in earnest?"

"Decidedly so."

"What, you, mademoiselle, go to the house of such a very humble person! Impossible! Mademoiselle cannot even be thinking of such a thing?"

"Impossible, and why, my good Laîné?"

"Why, the baron and baroness would never give their consent."

"So I do not intend to ask it."

"But mademoiselle would not go to Madame Herbaut's without consulting the baron!" cried the governess.

"Certainly."

"But how could you, mademoiselle?"

"My dear Laîné, you told me a minute ago that I could count upon you."

"And I repeat it, mademoiselle."

"Very well, then, you must take me to Madame Herbaut's to-morrow evening."

"I, mademoiselle? Really, I don't know whether I am awake or only dreaming."

"You are not dreaming, so to-morrow evening you will introduce me to Madame Herbaut as one of your relatives, an orphan."

"One of my relatives! Great Heavens! I should never dare!"

"Let me finish, please. You will introduce me, I say, as one of your relatives, recently arrived from the country, who earns her living as—as an embroiderer, for example. But, remember this, if you are guilty of the slightest indiscretion or blunder, and so cause any one to suspect that I am not what I wish to appear, that is to say, an orphan who supports herself by her own exertions, you will not remain another minute in my service, while if you follow my instructions carefully you may expect anything from me."

"Really, mademoiselle, you surprised me so I cannot seem to get over it. But why does mademoiselle wish me to introduce her to Madame Herbaut as a relative of mine and an orphan?"

"Don't ask me any more questions, Laîné. Can I depend upon you, yes or no?"

"Yes, mademoiselle, in life and in death. But—"

"No 'buts,' if you please, and now one word more, and the last. You know, of course," added the young girl, with a strangely bitter smile, "that I am the richest heiress in France."

"Certainly, mademoiselle, everybody knows that, and says that there is no other fortune in the country nearly as large as mademoiselle's."

"Ah, well, if you will do what I ask, and, above all, if you will be discreet, thoroughly discreet, understand,—I insist upon that, for it is absolutely necessary that Madame Herbaut should believe me what I mean to appear, a poor orphan supporting herself by her own exertions,—in short, if, thanks to your cleverness and discretion, everything passes off as I wish, you shall see how the richest heiress in France pays a debt of gratitude."

"What you say pains me deeply, mademoiselle," exclaimed the governess, with a gesture of superb disinterestedness. "Can mademoiselle suppose that I wish to set a price on my devotion?"

"No, but I deem it only right to set a price on my gratitude."

"Good Heavens! Mademoiselle, you know very well that if you should become as poor as I am I should be just as devoted to you."

"I do not doubt that in the least, but until I become poor, do what I ask. Take me to Madame Herbaut's to-morrow evening."

"But if you will talk the matter over a little you will see how impossible your plan is."

"And why?"

"In the first place, how can you arrange to have the disposal of your evening? The baron and baroness and Mlle. Helena never leave you."

"Oh, I can manage that very easily. To-morrow morning I will say that I passed a very uncomfortable night, and that I am not feeling at all well. I will remain in my room all day, and to-morrow evening you will go to the family and tell them that I am asleep and don't wish to be disturbed by anybody. My guardian and his family respect my slightest wish so abjectly that they will not dare to disturb my slumbers," added Mlle. de Beaumesnil, with mingled sadness and disdain.

"Oh, mademoiselle is perfectly right about that. No one would dare to contradict or oppose mademoiselle in anything. If mademoiselle should tell M. le baron to stand on his head, he would do it without a word."

"Oh, yes, they are certainly the most considerate of relatives, so full of tenderness and dignity," replied Ernestine, with a rather peculiar expression. "Ah, well, you see, then, that it will be an easy matter for me to secure an evening to myself."

"Yes, mademoiselle, but how shall we manage to get out of the house?"

"Get out of the house?"

"Yes. I mean without meeting any one on the stairway, or being seen by the concierge."

"That is your lookout. I depend upon you to devise a means of doing that."

"Oh, it is very easy to say devise a means, mademoiselle, but—"

"I foresaw this difficulty, of course, but I said to myself, 'My dear Laîné is very clever. She will assist me in this.'"

"Heaven knows I would be only too glad to, mademoiselle, but I really do not see—"

"Put on your thinking-cap. I have never used any but the main stairway, but are there no servants' stairways leading from my apartments?"

"Of course, mademoiselle. There are two such staircases, but you would run a great risk of meeting the servants if you used either of them; that is," added the governess, thoughtfully,—"that is unless you should choose the time that they are at dinner, about eight o'clock, for example."

"Your idea is an admirable one."

"Mademoiselle should not rejoice too soon."

"Why?"

"Mademoiselle will still have to pass the porter's lodge, and he is a regular Cerberus, for ever on the watch."

"That is true, we shall have to think of some other way."

"I am trying, mademoiselle, but it's no easy matter, I assure you."

"But not impossible, it seems to me."

"Ah, I have an idea, mademoiselle!" exclaimed the governess, suddenly, after reflecting a moment.

"Let me hear it."

"Excuse me, mademoiselle, but I'm not sure that it is at all feasible yet. Let me go and see. I'll be back in a moment."

And the governess darted out of the room. The orphan was left alone.

"I was right," she murmured, with an expression of bitter disgust. "This woman has a base and mercenary nature, like so many others, but these very failings will ensure me her submission, and, above all, her discretion."

In a few minutes the governess returned, radiant.

"Victory, mademoiselle!" she exclaimed, rapturously.

"Explain, if you please."

"Mademoiselle is aware that her dressing-room opens into my bedroom."

"Yes."

"And adjoining my chamber there is a large room containing the wardrobes for mademoiselle's dresses."

"Well?"

"There is a door in this room which opens upon a narrow staircase to which I never paid any attention before."

"And where does this staircase lead?"

"It leads down to a small door which has been closed up, but which opens, as nearly as I can judge, upon the side street."

"This door opens upon the street?" cried Mlle. de Beaumesnil, quickly.

"Yes, mademoiselle, and this is not at all surprising. In many of the large houses in this neighbourhood there are small private stairways leading up to the sleeping apartments, because in former times the ladies of the court—"

"The ladies of the court?" inquired Ernestine, so naïvely that Madame Laîné's eyes fell before the girl's innocent gaze.

So, fearing that she was going too far, and that she might imperil her recently acquired intimacy with her pupil, Madame Laîné said:

"I don't care to fill mademoiselle's ears with a lot of servants' gossip."

"And you are right. But if this door which leads into the street is condemned, how shall we open it?"

"It is bolted and nailed up on the inside—but mademoiselle needn't worry. I have all night before me, and to-morrow morning I hope to have a good report to make to mademoiselle."

"Very well If you think it necessary, inform your friend, Madame Herbaut, in advance that you will bring a relative with you to-morrow evening."

"I will do so, though it isn't at all necessary. Mademoiselle, if she accompanies me, will be as cordially received as I am. There is very little ceremony among people of that class."

"Very well, it is understood, then. But I repeat once more that I shall expect the utmost caution on your part. Your reward depends upon that."

"Mademoiselle can punish me in any way she pleases if I break my word."

"I would much rather reward you. See what you can do about that door now, and let me hear early to-morrow morning."

"But really, mademoiselle, all this is very extraordinary!"

"What do you mean?"

"I refer to mademoiselle's desire to go to Madame Herbaut's. It seems to me such a strange idea on mademoiselle's part. But I feel no uneasiness," added the governess, with a complacent air. "I know mademoiselle too well to suppose for one moment that she would involve a poor woman like myself in any trouble, and though I do not presume to question mademoiselle, may I not—as I, of course, must not speak of this matter to any one else—may I not know why, mademoiselle—"

"Good-night, my dear Laîné," said mademoiselle, rising, and thus putting an end to the conversation. "Let me know the results of your researches early to-morrow morning."

Delighted to have a secret between her pupil and herself at last, a secret which she regarded as convincing proof of a confidence which would ensure her a modest fortune, at least, Madame Laîné discreetly withdrew, leaving Mlle. de Beaumesnil again alone.

After a few moments of reflection the orphan unlocked her desk, and, opening the journal dedicated to her mother, began to write hurriedly, even impetuously.

"The resolve I have just made, my dear mother," wrote Ernestine, "is a dangerous one; I fear I did wrong to make it, but to whom can I turn for advice?

"To you, my dearest mother, I know, but it was while invoking your aid and protection that this idea occurred to me, and I feel that I must solve, at any cost, the doubts that so torment me.

"During the last few days many revelations have been made to me, some of such a sad and depressing nature that they seem to have upset me entirely, and it is with great difficulty, even now, that I can compose myself sufficiently to lay my heart bare to you, my kind and tender mother.

"For some time after my arrival in this house, I could speak only in terms of the highest praise of my guardian and his family, though sometimes in my secret heart I did censure them a little for the inordinate amount of flattery and attention they lavished upon me.

"This attention and these flatteries have not ceased; they have rather increased, if that were possible.

"My mental attributes, my character, and even my slightest word and act are praised in the most exaggerated way. As for my figure, my bearing, my personal appearance, and my every movement, they are all equally graceful, enchanting, divine,—in short, there is not a more attractive person in the world than I am.

"Saintly Mlle. Helena, who was never known to utter an untruth, assures me that I look like a madonna.

"Madame de la Rochaiguë says, with what she terms really brutal frankness, that I am endowed with such rare distinction and elegance of manner, as well as so many charms of person, that I am sure to become the most admired woman in Paris some day, in spite of myself.

"And last, but not least, according to my guardian, a serious-minded and extremely thoughtful man, the beauty of my features and the dignity of my bearing give me a striking resemblance to the beautiful Duchesse de Longueville, so famous under the Fronde.

"And when one day, in my artlessness, I expressed astonishment at my resembling so many persons at the same time, do you know, my dearest mother, what the answer was?

"'It is very simple. In you, mademoiselle, the most diverse charms are united, so, in you, each person finds the attraction he prefers.'

"And these flatteries pursue me everywhere. If the hair-dresser comes to arrange my hair, never before in his life did he see such superb tresses.

"If I am taken to the milliner's,'What is the use of selecting any particular shape?' says that lady. 'With a face like mademoiselle's any style is equally charming and becoming.'

"The dressmaker declares that my figure is so wonderfully elegant that, dressed in a loosely fitting sack, I should drive the ladies most famed for their perfection of form wild with envy.

"It is the same with the shoemaker, who declares that he will have to make a special last for me, never having worked for the possessor of so small a foot as mine.

"The glovemaker outdoes him even, by declaring that I have the hand of a dwarf.

"So you see, my dear mother, I may almost consider myself a phenomenon, fit for a museum.

"Oh, mother, mother, it was not in this way that you spoke when, taking my face in your two hands, and kissing me on the forehead, you said:

"'My poor Ernestine, you are not beautiful, or even pretty, but the candour and sweetness of your disposition are so plainly written on your expressive face that I do not regret your lack of beauty.'

"And these words of praise, the only ones, I believe, that you ever gave me, I believed, and they made me very happy.

"But alas! the daughter you so fondly loved, has she remained worthy of you? I do not know. I am not sure.

"Then I knew nothing of doubts, suspicion, and mockery! And for several days past cruel presentiments have taken such a hold on me that I am as much astonished as alarmed.

"There must be something terribly insidious in the effects of flattery, for—to you I must confess all—though I have often thought the praises lavished upon me must be exaggerated, I wondered why it should be that so many different people should be so unanimous in praising everything I said and did.

"Nor is this all.

"The other day Madame de la Rochaiguë took me to a concert. I soon perceived that everybody was looking at me. A number of persons even passed and repassed me several times, to examine me more closely, I suppose, though I was very simply dressed. Even when I come out of church I notice that every one stares at me. I mention the fact, and my guardian and his family say: 'Yes, you are right. Everybody does stare at you. See what a sensation you create everywhere!'

"And, in the face of this evidence, what can I say? Nothing.

"I must admit that all this flattery was becoming very pleasant to me. It surprised me less and less, and though it sometimes occurred to me how grossly exaggerated it was, I promptly silenced any misgivings on the subject, by saying to myself:

"'But if this is not true, why is the sensation I create—as my guardian says—so general?'

"Alas! I was soon to learn.

"This is what occurred:

"A gentleman of whom I have never dared to speak until now, has called at my guardian's house several times. This gentleman is M. le Marquis de Maillefort. He is deformed; he has a sardonic air, and he is always uttering the most sarcastic remarks or ironical compliments that sting worse than his sarcasms.

"On account of the antipathy he inspired in me, I usually found some excuse for leaving the drawing-room soon after his arrival, and I was encouraged in this by the persons around me, for they both feared and hated M. de Maillefort, though they always greeted him with pretended affability.

"Three days ago he was ushered into the room where I happened to be sitting alone with Mlle. Helena. To leave the room at once would have been too discourteous, so I remained, hoping to be able to make my escape in a few minutes.

"This short conversation then ensued between M. de Maillefort and Mlle. Helena. Alas! I have not forgotten a word of it.

"'Ah, good evening, my dear Mlle. Helena,' the marquis began, with his most sarcastic air. 'I am delighted to find Mlle. de Beaumesnil with you. She will derive such benefit from your pious conversation. She must profit so much by your excellent counsels, as well as by those of your worthy brother and your no less excellent sister-in-law!'

"'We hope so, indeed, M. le marquis, for we feel that we have a sacred duty to fulfil towards Mlle. de Beaumesnil.'

"'Unquestionably,' replied M. de Maillefort, in more and more sarcastic tones, 'a sacred duty to which you and yours will sedulously devote yourselves. Are you not continually repeating to Mlle. de Beaumesnil: "You are the richest heiress in France, and being that, you are necessarily the most accomplished and wonderfully gifted person in the world?"'

"'But, monsieur,' exclaimed Mlle. Helena, interrupting him, 'what you say—'

"'I leave it to Mlle. de Beaumesnil herself,' retorted the marquis. 'If she speaks the truth, will she not be obliged to admit that a continual chorus of praise is resounding around her, magnificently sustained by our dear baron, his wife, and you, Mlle. Helena,—a delightful chorus in which you all three sustain your parts with wonderful skill, with touching self-abnegation and sublime disinterestedness? All rôles are alike to you. To-day, as leaders of the choir, you give the keynote to a crowd of Mlle. de Beaumesnil's admirers; to-morrow, brilliant soloists, you will improvise hymns of praise which will reveal the extent of your resources, the flexibility of your art, and, above all, the adorable sincerity of your noble hearts.'

"'I suppose, then, monsieur,' said Mlle. Helena, colouring, doubtless, with anger, 'I suppose, then, that I am to infer that our dear ward has none of the admirable traits and personal charms which are so generally conceded to her.'

"'Because she is the richest heiress in France,' replied M. de Maillefort, with an ironical bow to me; 'and in this character Mlle. de Beaumesnil has a right to the most outrageous as well as the most insulting flattery,—insulting, because it is so manifestly untrue, and dictated solely by baseness and cupidity.'

"I rose, and left the room, scarcely able to keep back the tears.

"I cannot forget his words, mother. They are continually ringing in my ears.

"M. de Maillefort's remarks were a revelation to me. My eyes were opened. I understand everything now.

"The praises of every sort and kind, the attentions and protestations of affection lavished upon me, the sensation I always create at entertainments, even the flattering remarks of my tradespeople, are all addressed to the richest heiress in France.

"Ah, mother, it was not without cause that I wrote you of the strange and unpleasant effect it produced upon me when, the day after my arrival in this house, I was so pompously informed that I was the mistress of a colossal fortune.

"'It seems to me,' I said to you then,'that I am in the situation of a person who possesses a valuable treasure, and fears that it may be stolen from him at any moment.'

"I understand this feeling now.

"It was the vague presentiment of this fear and distrust which has pursued me so relentlessly since the truth was thus harshly revealed to me.

"The praise bestowed upon me, the protestations of attachment made to me, are due solely to my wealth.

"Yes, mother, M. de Maillefort's spiteful remarks have really been productive of a great deal of good, though they did cause me so much pain, for they have enlightened me in regard to the incomprehensible but increasing dislike my guardian and his family were inspiring in my heart.

"This revelation at last explains the obsequiousness and servility which surround me on every side.

"And now, my dearly beloved mother, my confession becomes a painful one, even when made to thee. It may be because this atmosphere of deceit and adulation in which I am living has already contaminated me, or, perhaps, because I shrink in such dismay from the thought that all this praise and all these demonstrations of affection are due solely to my wealth, but I can scarcely credit so much baseness and deceitfulness, nor can I quite believe that I am so utterly unattractive, or that I am wholly incapable of inspiring any sincere and disinterested affection.

"And you see, my dearest mother, I no longer know what to think, not only of other people, but of myself. These doubts, this continual suspicion and distrust, are intolerable. I try in vain to devise some means of discovering the truth. From whom can I expect an honest reply?

"Nor is this all. Several recent events have rendered my situation still more trying.

"You shall judge of it.

"M. de Maillefort's sarcastic allusions in regard to the perfections which I must necessarily possess in my character of heiress have doubtless been repeated to my guardian and his wife by Mlle. Helena, or else some other event, of which I am ignorant, has induced those around me to disclose projects of which I had no previous knowledge or even suspicion, and which have increased my distrust and uneasiness a thousandfold."

Mademoiselle was here interrupted in her writing by two cautious raps at her door.

Surprised and almost terrified, as in her preoccupation she had forgotten the subject of her late conversation with her governess, the orphan asked, in trembling tones:

"Who is it?"

"I, mademoiselle," replied Madame Laîné's voice.

"Come in," said Ernestine, remembering now.

"What is the matter?" she asked, as her governess entered.

"I have some good news for mademoiselle. My hands are all bloody, you see, but that doesn't matter."

"I see," cried Ernestine, greatly alarmed. "What has happened? How did you hurt yourself so? Here, take this handkerchief and stanch the blood."

"Oh, it's but a mere scratch, mademoiselle," replied the governess, heroically. "In your service, I would brave death itself."

This exaggeration cooled Mlle. de Beaumesnil's compassion very considerably, and she replied:

"I believe in your courageous devotion, of course, but pray bind up your hand."

"If mademoiselle desires it, of course, but this scratch is of no consequence, for the door is open, mademoiselle. I succeeded in prying out the staples of the padlock, and in removing an iron bar that also secured the door, which opens into the street exactly as I supposed."

"You may be sure that I shall reward you, my dear Laîné, for this—"

"Oh, do not speak of rewarding me, I implore you, mademoiselle. Am I not more than paid in the pleasure of serving you? But mademoiselle will excuse me, I hope, for coming back contrary to her orders, but I was so delighted to have succeeded."

"On the contrary I am very grateful for the zeal you have manifested. So you think we can count upon carrying out our plans to-morrow?"

"There isn't the slightest doubt of that, now, mademoiselle."

"Then have a very simple white dress ready for me to wear to-morrow evening, and as soon as it is dark you and I will go to Madame Herbaut's. And once more let me remind you that I shall expect you to exercise the greatest caution."

"Mademoiselle need have no anxiety on that account. Has mademoiselle any further orders?"

"No, I only desire to thank you again for your zeal."

"Then I will bid mademoiselle good night."

"Good night, my dear Laîné."

The governess left the room and Mlle. de Beaumesnil resumed her writing.

"In order to fully understand these recent events, it is necessary to review the past, my dear mother," Mlle. de Beaumesnil continued.

"The day after my arrival at my guardian's house I went to church with Mlle. Helena, who during mass called my attention to a young man who was praying fervently before the same altar.

"This young man I afterwards learned was a M. Célestin de Macreuse.

"Mlle. Helena's attention had been attracted to him, she told me, because, instead of kneeling upon a chair like every one else, he was kneeling upon the marble floor of the church. It must have been for his mother, too, that he was praying, for we afterwards heard him ask the priest who took up the collection in our part of the church for another novena of masses in the same chapel for the repose of his mother's soul.

"As we were coming out of church, M. de Macreuse offered us the holy water with a bow, for he had preceded us to the font. A moment afterwards, we saw him distributing alms among a number of beggars who had crowded around him, saying in a faltering voice: 'The little I can give, I offer you in the name of my mother who is no more. Pray for her.'

"Just as M. de Macreuse was disappearing in the crowd I perceived M. de Maillefort. Whether he was just entering or leaving the church I can not say; but Mlle. Helena, who caught sight of him just as I did, seemed surprised and even disturbed by his presence.

"On our way home she spoke several times of this M. de Macreuse, who seemed to be so truly devout and charitable. She did not know him personally, she said, but she could not help feeling a great interest in him because he seemed to possess virtues seldom found in young men of the present day.

"The next day we went to church again; and again we saw M. de Macreuse. He was performing his devotions in the same chapel, and this time he was so deeply absorbed in prayer that, when mass was over, he remained on his knees with his forehead almost touching the marble pavement, and seemed positively crushed with grief. A moment afterwards he fell backward in a sort of swoon, and had to be carried into the sacristy.

"'Unfortunate young man,' whispered Mlle. Helena, 'how inconsolable he is! How deeply he mourns for his mother! What a noble and tender heart he must have.'

"I shared this feeling of compassion, for who could better sympathise with the sorrow of this young man whose melancholy face indicated the deepest grief.

"Just as the door of the sacristy opened to admit the beadles, who had come to M. de Macreuse's assistance, M. de Maillefort, who chanced to be directly in their path, began to smile ironically.

"Mlle. Helena seemed more and more disturbed to see M. de Maillefort at church a second time.

"'This imp of Satan must have come to the house of God for some deviltry or other,' she remarked to me.

"On the afternoon of that same day, Madame de la Rochaiguë insisted upon my driving with her and one of her friends, Madame la Duchesse de Senneterre, a lady I had never met before. We went to the Bois. There were a great many people there, and as our carriage was moving along at a snail's pace, Madame de la Rochaiguë remarked to her friend:

"'Isn't that your son I see on horseback over there, my dear duchess?'

"'Yes, I believe it is Gerald,' replied Madame de Senneterre, turning her lorgnette in the direction indicated.

"'I hope he will see us, and come and speak to us,' added Madame de Mirecourt, who was also with us.

"'Oh, M. de Senneterre will not fail to do that, as the duchess fortunately is with us,' replied Madame de la Rochaiguë. 'I say fortunately, but that is not exactly the word, as that lady's presence prevents us from saying all we would like to say in M. Gerald's praise.'

"'Oh, as for that, I warn you I haven't a bit of maternal modesty,' answered Madame de Senneterre, smiling. 'I never hear half enough nice things said about my son.'

"'However exacting you may be, you ought to be very well satisfied on that score, it seems to me, my dear duchess,' replied Madame de Mirecourt.

"'But speaking of M. de Senneterre, did you ever hear why he enlisted as a common soldier, at the age of eighteen?' continued Madame de Mirecourt, addressing Madame de la Rochaiguë.

"'No,' replied that lady, 'I have heard that, beginning as a common soldier, in spite of his birth, he gained his several promotions, as well as his cross, on the battlefield, at the cost of several wounds; but I never heard why he enlisted.'

"'Madame la duchesse,' said Madame de Mirecourt, turning to Madame de Senneterre, 'is it not true that your son enlisted because he thought it cowardly to hire a man to go and be killed in his stead?'

"'Yes, that is true,' replied Madame de Senneterre; 'that is the reason my son gave us, and he carried out his resolution in spite of my tears and entreaties.'

"'Superb!' exclaimed Madame de la Rochaiguë. 'Nobody in the world but M. de Senneterre would ever have made and carried out such a chivalrous resolution as that.'

"'It is easy to judge of the generosity of his character from that fact alone,' added Madame de Mirecourt.

"'Oh, I can say with just pride that there is no better son in the world than my Gerald,' remarked Madame de Senneterre.

"'And when one says that, one says everything,' added Madame de la Rochaiguë.

"I listened in silence to this conversation, naturally sharing in the admiration that M. de Senneterre's generous act excited in those around me.

"A few minutes afterwards, a party of young men passed us on horseback. One of them, I noticed, paused on seeing us, wheeled his horse around and came back.

"This young man proved to be M. de Senneterre. He bowed to his mother; Madame de la Rochaiguë introduced him to me. He made a few courteous remarks, and then walked his horse along by the side of our carriage while we drove several times around the race-track.

"It is needless to say that scarcely a handsome equipage passed without an interchange of friendly bows between the occupants and M. de Senneterre, who seemed to be a general favourite.

"During the conversation he had with us, he was very gay and a trifle sarcastic, but not the least spiteful.

"A short time before he left us, we met a magnificent carriage, drawn by four horses. Its sole occupant was a man to whom many persons bowed with great deference. This man bowed very low to M. de Senneterre, who, instead of returning the salute, surveyed him with the utmost disdain.

"'Why, that was M. du Tilleul that just passed, M. de Senneterre!' exclaimed Madame de la Rochaiguë, evidently much surprised.

"'Yes, madame.'

"'He bowed to you.'

"'True, madame.'

"'But you did not return his bow.'

"'I no longer bow to M. du Tilleul, madame.'

"'But everybody else does.'

"'Then they do very wrong, in my opinion.'

"'But why, M. de Senneterre?'

"'You ask me that, with his recent affair with Madame—'

"Then suddenly checking himself, probably on account of my presence, he continued, addressing Madame de la Rochaiguë:

"'You have heard about his conduct with a certain marquise?'

"'Of course.'

"'Well, in my opinion, a man who behaves with such cowardice and cruelty is a scoundrel, and I do not bow to a scoundrel.'

"'Still, he is received everywhere,' remarked Madame de Mirecourt.

"'Yes, because he owns the handsomest house in Paris, and everybody wishes to attend his entertainments.'

"'Oh, you are entirely too particular, M. Gerald,' said Madame de Mirecourt.

"'I too particular?' exclaimed M. de Senneterre, laughing. 'What a frightful slander! I will convince you to the contrary. Look at that little green brougham coming this way, and that—'

"'Gerald!' cried Madame de Senneterre, reminding her son of my presence with a look, for I had involuntarily turned to glance at the vehicle to which M. de Senneterre had called attention, and which was occupied by a young and extremely pretty woman, who seemed to be following the young duke with her eyes.

"His mother's warning exclamation, and the look she cast at me, made M. de Senneterre bite his lips, but it was with a smile that he replied:

"You are right, mother. It would make angels too unhappy to know that there are such things as demons in the world."

This half apology was indirectly addressed to me, I suppose, for two of the ladies glanced at me, smiling in their turn, and I felt greatly embarrassed.

"As we were leaving, Madame de Senneterre asked:

"You dine with me to-day, do you not, Gerald?"

"No, mother, and I must ask you to pardon me for not having told you that I had made another engagement."

"That is very unfortunate, for I, too, have made an engagement for you," replied Madame de Senneterre, smiling.

"All right, mother," said M. de Senneterre, affectionately; "I will send my friends a brief note of excuse; then I shall be entirely at your service."

And after having bowed very deferentially to us, M. de Senneterre started his horse off at a gallop.

"He rides with perfect skill and grace, and on horseback reminds me not a little of my poor father.

"Though he had addressed only a very few remarks to me, I feel sure, from what I saw and heard during this interview, that M. de Senneterre must possess a frank, generous, and resolute nature, as well as a profound respect and affection for his mother. The other ladies must have thought so, too, for they did not cease praising him until we separated.

"The next day and the day following, we again saw M. de Macreuse at church. His grief seemed no less deep, though more calm. Two or three times he happened to glance in our direction, and I could not help being struck by the contrast between his sad, almost timid look and bearing, and M. le Duc de Senneterre's dashing ease of manner.

"The next day after our visit to the Bois, I accompanied my guardian to the garden of the Luxembourg, as I had promised.

"We had visited the conservatories and the magnificent rose gardens, when we met a friend of M. de la Rochaiguë. He was introduced to me as the Baron de Ravil or du Ravil, I believe.

"This gentleman walked along beside us for several minutes, then, drawing out his watch, he remarked to M. de la Rochaiguë:

"'Pardon me for leaving you so soon, M. le baron, but I am very anxious not to miss this important session.'

"'What important session?' inquired my guardian.

"'Can it be that you haven't heard that M. de Mornand speaks to-day?'

"'Is it possible?'

"'Certainly; all Paris will be there, for when M. de Mornand speaks, it is an event.'

"'It is indeed. He is a man of wonderful talent, I think, a man who can hardly fail to be minister some day or other. How unfortunate that I did not hear of this before. I am sure, my dear ward, that the session would have interested you very much, in spite of all Madame de la Rochaiguë's nonsensical talk, but if I should take you to the chamber now she would be sure to accuse me of having set a trap for you.'

"'Still, if mademoiselle has the slightest desire to attend the session, I am at your service, M. le baron,' said our companion; 'I expected to meet one of my nieces and her husband here, but they have not come, and probably will not, now. I had procured tickets of admission to the diplomatic gallery for them, and if these tickets would be of any service to you—'

"'What do you say, my dear ward?'

"'I will do whatever you like, monsieur; but it seems to me a session of the Chamber of Peers might be very interesting,' I added, chiefly out of regard for my guardian, I fear.

"'Very well, I will accept your offer, then, my dear M. de Ravil,' cried M. de la Rochaiguë, 'and you are lucky, indeed, my dear child,' he added, turning to me, 'to happen here on a day M. de Mornand speaks.'

"We hastened towards the palace, and just as we were leaving the quincunxes I saw, some distance off, M. de Maillefort, who seemed to be following us,—a fact that surprised me, and made me rather uneasy.

"'Why do I meet this wicked man at every turn?' I said to myself. 'Who could have informed him of our plans?'

"The diplomatic gallery, where we had seats, was filled with elegantly dressed ladies. I occupied a seat on the upper row of benches between my guardian and M. de Ravil.

"A gentleman near us, having been heard to remark that some noted orator—he did not refer to M. de Mornand—was also to speak during the session, M. de Ravil replied that there was no other orator who could compare with M. de Mornand, and that this crowd had come to hear him. He ascended the tribune almost immediately, and there was a profound silence.

"I was incapable of criticising or even of entirely comprehending M. de Mornand's discourse. It related to subjects with which I was totally unacquainted, but I was deeply impressed by the conclusion of his speech, in which he spoke with the warmest sympathy of the unhappy lot of fishermen's families awaiting in sickening suspense upon the beach the return of a beloved father, son, or husband, while the tempest was raging wildly around them.

"It so happened that, as M. de Mornand uttered these touching words, he turned towards our tribune, and his strong face seemed to me filled with a profound compassion for the unfortunate creatures whose cause he had espoused.

"'Wonderful! How very touching!' whispered M. de Ravil, wiping his eyes, for he, too, seemed deeply affected.

"'M. de Mornand is sublime!' exclaimed my guardian. 'There is little doubt that his speech will greatly ameliorate the lot of thousands of these unfortunates.'

"Prolonged applause followed the conclusion of M. de Mornand's speech. He was about to leave the tribune when another member of the Chamber, a man with a malevolent, sarcastic face, rose in his seat, and said:

"'I ask the permission of the Chamber to ask M. de Mornand a simple question before he descends from the tribune and before his sudden and generous compassion for our brave fishermen shall consequently have evaporated.'

"'If you will take my advice, we will leave at once to escape the crowd,' M. de Ravil remarked to my guardian. 'M. de Mornand having finished, everybody will want to go, for there will be nothing else of interest.'

"M. de la Rochaiguë offered me his arm, but just as we were leaving the hall we heard shouts of laughter, and renewed applause.

"'I know what that means,' remarked M. de Ravil. 'M. de Mornand has crushed, by his sarcasm, the imprudent member who had the audacity to question any of his statements, for when he wishes to be, M. de Mornand is as witty as the devil.'

"My guardian having suggested that we extend our walk to the observatory, I consented, and M. de Ravil accompanied us.

"'M. le baron,' he remarked to my guardian; 'did you notice Madame de Bretigny, who left the hall just as we did?'

"'The wife of the minister? No, I did not.'

"'I am sorry, monsieur, for you would have seen one of the noblest women that ever lived. You have no idea what wonderfully good use she makes of her position as a minister's wife, or of the vast amount of good she does, the wrongs she repairs, and the assistance she gives to the worthy.'