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This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place.
Title: Adrienne, an electronic edition
Author: Rita
Publisher: Hutchinson & Co.
Place published: London
Date: 1898
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ADRIENNEADRIENNEA Romance of French LifeBy "Rita" Author of "Peg the Rake," "The Sinner," "Good
Mrs. Hypocrite," etc.LONDON:HUTCHINSON & CO.PATERNOSTER ROW1898ADRIENNEA ROMANCE OF FRENCH LIFECHAPTER I.IT was the height of the season at Trouville.Swarms of yachts came and went in the beautiful bay. A fashionable crowd disported itself in endless variety of toilettes. An equally fashionable crowd bobbed and splashed in semi-nude audacity in the glittering blue water. The sunshine shone gaily over the quaint little green-shuttered villas, the variegated awnings, the laughing, chattering women, and the bored and idle men.Armand de Valtour knew it all so well. Too well to feel much interest in those semi-nude women bobbing up and, down in the blue waters. Too well to see any charm in the myriad gorgeous toilettes, carefully "got-up" complexions, the dancing and gambling, and flirting, and scandal-making, and eating and drinking--No! He did
care about that last amusement--cared about it a good deal, despite a tendency to dyspepsia, which no fashionable medicines seemed able to cure. There was a little of the gourmand about Armand de Valtour, and in his easy, lazy, somewhat selfish fashion, he gave into the weakness, and disregarded the consequences.He very often had disregarded consequences during his by no means irreproachable life, until what at first seemed only a weakness had become a habit.He was tired of Trouville.He had been there a week only; yet he told himself he was sick of the place and everyone in it. His dinners had disagreed with him; his friend, Victor Lamboi, had won a heavy sum from him at écarté the previous night; a woman whom he particularly disliked had come to stay at the same hotel where he was located, and had given more than a hint that she expected his attentions as of yore; it was intolerably hot; the sea was so brilliant it hurt his eyes to look at it; the women looked frights in the water--in fact, he was out of humour with everything and everybody, and so turned hotelward from the sea to have his breakfast, and made up his mind to leave the place that very night.He might feel better after breakfast, there was no knowing. But--He stopped quite suddenly in his slow, sauntering

walk-stopped, and was almost guilty of a prolonged stare. Yet all he saw was a young girl in a simple cream white dress, standing and watching the scene. Beside her was an elderly lady, dowdily and unfashionably dressed."English," thought Armand de Valtour. "But what an exquisite face!"He almost wondered at his own sudden admiration. Women's beauty had so long been an old tale to him. But nevertheless he had been startled into it. This girl, with her soft, rose-tinted cheeks, and serious eyes, and parted, scornful lips, that seemed to utter a mute reproach to her own sex as they disported themselves unblushingly before the gaze of the idle crowds around, struck a chord of wonder in his soul."I wonder who she is?" he thought, as he went on his way. "What a contrast to all these dressed-up dolls!"Which speech was rank heresy on the part of a man whose Paradise was Paris, and who had been wont to be more than critical over women's dress all his life.He passed the girl, and went slowly up to his hotel, and partook of cutlets and drank his claret, and leaned lazily back, looking out of the windows at the bright sunshine, and the rippling sea, and the white sails of the boats, and half resolved to wait another day before laving Trouville.He had thought of going to Provence; he had an estate there, and all his people adored him, seldom as

he honoured them with his presence. They would give him a genuine welcome, that he knew, and there would be old friends glad to greet him; and his sister, Céline, who lived in the old château, would receive him with open arms. It was five years since he had been there. Yes, he thought he had better go, and he would be rid of care and embarrassments, and Madame Aurélie could find herself another cavalier servante. He was sick and tired of her whims and fancies! He had cared for her a little once; but that, of course, was long ago. Why would women never believe that love is not made to last for ever? Why could they never see that a time comes when a passion should be dropped easily and gracefully, as an undesirable acquaintance is dropped, and not persist in recurring to the past as if one always remained at fever-point?--so ridiculous and unreasonable as they were!Ah! here was Lamboi; farewell to meditations. This good Victor never had any repose about him; never could be brought to understand that there are times to be silent as well as times to talk."Ah, Armand! What, done breakfast already?" cried a hearty voice, and a stout, good-tempered-looking man entered the room, and drew his chair up to the table. "You have had your bath. Yes? Was it not fine the sea this morning, and did you see Aurélie? What a costume! and how stout she gets. And who do you think has arrived? The little Marquise de Savigny! I saw her talking to some

English people. A girl like a rose,--fresh, lovely, quite à l'Anglaise. And a mother--such a woman--dressed!--ah, but of course you know how they dress at forty, cher Armand. But the girl belle comme une ange!--ravissante! Such a complexion, such eyes!""The cutlets are getting cold," said Armand de Valtour, making a faint endeavour to stem the torrent of talk. "Had you not better begin your breakfast?"Victor took the hint. Words would keep, after all; but the cutlets would be spoilt. He devoted himself to them with unmitigated ardour for the next two minutes."And does Madame de Savigny know these English people?" asked Armand de Valtour presently."Yes--did I not tell you so? She was with them.""You did not speak, I suppose?""Au contraire! I did speak, and to some purpose. I was introduced. The English girl and her mother of the dreadful toilette are staying with the charming Odylle. The rose and fleur-de-lys are old school-fellows--were at Brussels, I believe. The fleur-de-lys has married, and asks her old school-friend to visit her at Trouville--that is the story. They stay here a month.""How you do manage to get hold of everything!" said Armand, regarding his friend with a glance of half-envious, half-amused admiration.Lamboi shrugged his shoulders."Why not? One must know all one can."He poured out some Moselle as he spoke, and drank it slowly and appreciatively."By the way," he said, as he set the glass down, "madame has asked us both to dinner to-night. I accepted for you!""The devil you did!" exclaimed De Valtour angrily. "I am not going. I leave Trouville by the evening train.""Leave Trouville!" cried his friend, regarding him with astonishment. "And why? You have only just come. Leave Trouville? Is it Aurélie you fear? Console yourself, mon ami. I will take her off your hands.""No; it is not Aurélie," answered De Valtour impatiently, "though she is tiresome, I admit. I am tired of the place; it fatigues one. I am going to Provence.""To Provence!" ejaculated Victor Lamboi, in unfeigned astonishment. "To bury yourself in your old château, to leave all the gaiety and life here for the dullness of the country! Mon cher, what has occurred to you? Something has put you out.""N'importe," muttered Armand de Valtour, "I am going--that is all."Victor was silent, an unusual thing for him. As he sipped his wine, and looked out at the bright prospect, he thought to himself that Armand was a fool; but he did not give audible expression to the senti-

ment, only pondered slowly over some means to combat his friend's resolution and keep him here in Trouville."Will you not wait?" he asked persuasively, as he handed him his cigarette case. "I promised for us both; and Madame de Savigny is worth dining with, and you would see the English girl. All Trouville will rave of her to-morrow."Armand de Valtour took a cigarette, and gazed dreamily out at the sea. Should he go, or stay? He debated the question lazily with himself, while his friend, for once, practised the self-denial of silence, and watched him with well-assumed indifference. Should he go?After all, there was no haste. A day would not make much difference. And Odylle de Savigny was a charming little woman, Parisian to the back-bone--and the English girl was very lovely, though prudish and cold, doubtless, as they all were. Should he go?The cigarette crumbled itself away. The haze of sunshine on the blue sea grew dim and soft; a peal of girlish laughter fell on his ears.Victor Lamboi started forward."There they are!" he said eagerly. "Is she not lovely?"Armand de Valtour did not lean forward--did not even seem to look. But two minutes afterward he took another cigarette--lighted it--glanced seawards."Bien," he said reluctantly; "for to-night I will

remain. But only to-night. To-morrow I leave for Provence.""That is well," said Lamboi, with a quiet smile.It was a hot July night. Windows were open to the sea; bands playing; dainty dresses flitting by; a faint breeze fluttered the laces and muslins of the women; all the amusements of the evening awaited their choice or invited their notice. At a window of one of the little green-shuttered houses a girl was standing. She was dressed all in white, and held in her hand a large fan of ostrich feathers.Standing thus, she met the gaze (for the second time that day) of one of the most critical and difficile men of fashion. She turned swiftly, as he was announced, and answered his low bow by a slight inclination of her graceful head."Madame de Savigny will be here directly, monsieur," she said, in her soft, clear, young voice--a voice which spoke his native tongue with perfect ease and fluency."I am a little early, I fear," said Armand de Valtour, coming over to the window by which she had been standing. "I could not remember whether my friend Lamboi told me seven or half-past."She made no reply. She was thinking how handsome this man was, and marvelling at the ease and grace of his manner. Why had Englishmen not that perfect, well-bred, easy grace? His voice cut short her conjectures."You have but just arrived; is it not so, mademoiselle? I saw you this morning, I think.""Yes, we came last evening," she said, taking the chair by the window he had placed for her."And what do you think of Trouville? Or have you been here before?""No; it is quite a new experience to me. My friend was so eager for me to come, and wrote such glowing accounts of the life here, that I could not resist her invitation. My mother did not wish to come. She hates crossing the Channel, and I don't think she likes foreign ways.""Very likely not; I think your nation has many prejudices against us, mademoiselle, and I daresay we return the compliment.""No doubt," said the girl, with a quiet smile. "But I think everyone ought to travel. One acquires broader views of life and people, and it is so pleasant to have change. Moving always in one groove makes one narrow-minded.""A French girl would not talk like this," thought Armand de Valtour wonderingly. "How soon these English women learn to think for themselves." Aloud, he said, "I think you are quite right. Travelling has its advantages without doubt, and there is so much to see, and to learn in the world, it makes one pity those whom prejudice or indifference has kept in but one place. They are not many, I hope; for nowadays travelling is made so easy for us there are but few excuses for avoiding it.""I suppose you have been a great traveller, monsieur?""I have had a fair share of it in my time. I have seen most of Europe, and paid my respects to America. I have passed a winter in Canada, and gone for a shooting excursion to the Himalayas. But I am growing lazy now, I fear, or else I have found that, like everything else in this life, travelling palls on one after a time. My last four years have been spent almost exclusively in Paris. Have you ever been there, mademoiselle?"No; I have a great wish to see your famous capital. It is very beautiful, is it not?""Beautiful!" He made an expressive gesture. "Ah! mademoiselle, one needs a poet's tongue to paint it aright. Some day, perhaps, I shall have the happiness to see you there. I will not attempt to disenchant you now with a feeble description of its charms.""I do not think you will ever see me there!" said the girl seriously; "at least it seems very improbable.""I have known many more improbable things happen, mademoiselle, than that seems," he said, with a grave smile. "Ah, here is Madame de Savigny."He rose to greet her with the courtly grace that had so charmed the serious, musing eyes of the English girl."Ah, monsieur! so you have made friends with Mdlle. Heath, I see," said the pretty, sparkling little

Parisienne who entered. "I asked her to play hostess for me. I am rather late, I fear. You early? Oh, no not at all. I said seven. Where is Monsieur Lamboi?""He will be here immediately, madame.""That is right. Have you been long at Trouville? A week? Ah, we only came yesterday. All Paris is here, is it not? I have asked my little English friend to stay with me. My husband has gone to Brittany--his mother is ill. I would not go. I hate Brittany. I am never well there.""And you have come to distract Trouville, madame, as you have already distracted Paris. A cruel kindness!""I shall do nothing of the kind, and you know it. I will leave that cruelty to my friend here.""Then Trouville is indeed to be pitied--and envied," he said, with a low bow. "You have done so much mischief yourself, madame, that you might have had a little pity by this time. With two such--""Ah, Monsieur de Valtour," she interrupted, hastily, "my friend does not care for pretty speeches, and I am tired of them. Tell me who is here, and what you have been doing with yourself all this week. I shall expect you to be our cavalier.""Madame knows she has only to express a wish to be obeyed.""Yes, that is very pretty; I only hope you mean it. Ah! Monsieur Lamboi--welcome Now, messieurs, dinner is served. Ah, Count, you are looking

for Madame Heath, I suppose? She is indisposed after her journey--has a bad headache, and is lying down. We shall not have the pleasure of her presence this evening. Will you give your arm to mademoiselle instead? Adrienne, ma chère, we will follow you.""And you really leave Trouville to-morrow?" asked Victor Lamboi, some three hours later, as he and his friend were strolling towards the Casino. "But it is a pity. I would stay if I were you.""I mean to stay," said Armand de Valtour quietly.CHAPTER II."You will bathe this morning, Adrienne, will you not?" asked the little Marquise, opening her friend's door and looking in."Do you mean go with all those people and dance about in the water as they were doing yesterday--and in such costumes! No, thank you, Odylle; I had rather be excused.""But, my dear, everyone does it now; and as for the costumes, some of them are quite chic. You didn't expect to see people in those nightgown-like affairs you wear in England. You couldn't swim in one.""But the men are all with them, and those low-necked, short-sleeved dresses are very improper, I think.""Not one whit worse than our modern evening dress," said Odylle, laughing. "My dear, don't bring any of your prudish English notions here. They won't do. Come, I know you can swim, and I told the Comte de Valtour we should be in the water this morning.""The Comte de Valtour! You told him!" ejacu-

lated Adrienne, colouring rosily. "Oh, Odylle! How could you?""Why not? Where is the harm? It is quite the usual thing to do here.""I shall not do it!" said the girl firmly. "I would rather never bathe at all, fond as I am of it, than go into the water in that fashion.""What a silly little thing you are!" pouted Odylle. "And you would look so well in the sea; fair girls always do; and with your figure, too! What on earth have you to be afraid of?"A hot flush rose to the delicate cheek of the English girl."I think it is horrid!" she said coldly."Oh! ma chère," laughed the pretty Parisienne, "how you do amuse me! Well, I won't argue with you; I know of old how little use it is. I am going to bathe, at all events. What shall I say to the Count if he asks for you?""I hope he will have the good sense not to do so," said the girl haughtily. "I think he could hardly expect to see me there.""Well, adieu till breakfast time," laughed Odylle. "I wish you were not so particular. Believe me, a free and easy life is so much pleasanter. I never have scruples about things. What everyone does can't have much harm in it."A faint smile hovered on Adrienne's lips."We think differently on many matters," she said, "I don't care to do what everyone does, so long

as their doings disagree with my own feelings and ideas.""Oh! you will alter that by and by," laughed her friend. "Believe me, my dear, nothing makes a girl appear so odd as prejudices and opinions. It looks old-maidish.""I don't mind that!""You dreadful child! But of course you don't mean it. Tell me, what did you think of Armand de Valtour?""He is very gentlemanly.""Gentlemanly--he is the most finished courtier of the day! He is perfectly adored in Paris; everyone runs after him; his taste is perfect; his word is more powerful than that of a prince.""Is he rich?" asked Adrienne."Yes. But he is the fashion--that is still better. He is of an ancient Provençal race; he is very proud; very difficile, very exclusive. He has never married--they say he never will now; all the women adore him. He must be nearly forty years of age. Well, I really must go if I mean to bathe. You will come and look on, perhaps?""No; I shall go for a walk.""But not by yourself," urged Odylle, rather horrified. "You are not in England, remember, and you are too pretty not to be observed.""Oh, my mother will come also, I have no doubt," said Adrienne. "I shall not outrage your French proprieties, Odylle--do not fear.""That is a sarcastic little speech, mon amie. Never mind, it is one of the privileges of friendship to be frank, is it not?"And, kissing her hand, she ran merrily out of the room to prepare for that edifying exhibition which Adrienne had declined to share.Left to herself, the girl rose slowly and put on her straw hat and arranged her simple morning dress, then went to fetch her mother as chaperon for that seaside ramble she meditated. Mrs. Heath was in no wise reluctant to accompany her daughter. The aquatic exhibition had only raised disgust in her well-drilled British mind, and she would never have permitted Adrienne to take part in it, even had she wished to do so.They left the bathers far behind, and the planks that fashion has consecrated into a treadmill, and went on beyond to the cool sands, which were almost deserted at this hour. Mrs. Heath soon declared herself fatigued. Adrienne could have walked miles; she wanted to go much further, but her mother declared it impossible. Adrienne persuaded her to sit down and rest, while she strolled on.Trouville has but little beauty anywhere; yet it seemed fair enough in the girl's young eyes, as she watched the slow rolling waves, the far-off shining sails, the drifting clouds, the bright sapphire of the sky."I should like to be in the sea. What a pity one cannot bathe by one's self here!" she thought, look-

ing with longing eyes at the lazy curling waves, with the sunshine warming their crests. She had wandered on; her mother was sitting on the sands far behind, engrossed in a book she had brought with her. Adrienne wanted no book; her thoughts were always companions enough.Suddenly she saw a tall figure advancing from the opposite direction. Even at the distance that separated them she seemed to recognise the easy grace of the carriage, the poise of the well-shaped head."It is the Comte de Valtour," she thought, and flushed a little as she thought it. He had not gone with the bathers after all; he had not expected to see her there. The thought was so pleasant that she almost wondered at its pleasantness. She half turned aside that she might not seem to have perceived him, and tossed pebbles idly in among the tiny waves, and watched the widening circles spread over the blue waters before her."Have I then the happiness to see mademoiselle again?" murmured the pleasant, courteous voice she remembered so well.Being calm and composed now, the girl turned her face towards him, and gave him her hand."I strolled here--my mother is fatigued--she is sitting yonder on that heap of sand. I wanted to walk to Villerville, but she says it is too far.""So it is," he answered. "Even so far as you have come is a long walk for a young lady of our modern days. By the way, would you prefer to

speak English, Mdlle. Heath? I know it well.""Yes, I should," she said quickly. "I fear I do not speak your language very well. One so soon gets out of practice.""You speak it admirably," he answered, in her own tongue. "You learned it here, I suppose?""Yes--in Brussels. I was at school there. That was how I knew Odylle. She married soon after she left, and has invited me many times to stay with her. But I have never been able to do so till now.""I wonder how you will like life here," he said, looking earnestly at her. "It is different--so different to England. It is all froth and sparkle and idleness and gaiety and dress. Do you care for such things? No? I thought not. What will you do?""I suppose I must look on at what others do," she said gravely. "After all, one need not live in the crowd. There is always the sea. It is pretty here in this little nook; do you often come here?""No--I can't think what brought me here to-day. Some kind fate, I think. I had meant to bathe, and then changed my mind. How is it you are not in the water with all the rest of the world, mademoiselle?"She coloured shyly. "I--I did not care to go," she answered simply, and somehow felt that he would know why without further explanation.Perhaps he did. He asked no more questions, only talked on softly and pleasantly as he well knew how, while the blue water rolled up lazily and left its

rings of foam at their feet, and the gulls spread their silvery wings in the sunlight, and whirled in circles above the mimic waves."My mother will be wondering what has become of me," said Adrienne at last, rousing herself with a start. "Will you come to be introduced to her, monsieur? She was not able to dine with us last night.""I shall be honoured," he said, with a low bow as he turned and walked beside her. From time to time he looked at her, marvelling a little at the charm she held for him--a charm that was not so much in the fairness of her face as in the sweet serious gravity, so unchildlike and yet so youthful, of her manner; the perfect composure and grace that made her young years sit half-oddly on her shoulders. She was beautiful now and would be more so, that he saw. The low, broad brow, the beautiful mouth, the large serious eyes, the exquisite tint of skin and complexion, would only deepen into rarer charm with maturity. But perhaps that perfect purity and unconsciousness which was shadowed forth in her whole aspect touched this man of the world more deeply than her physical loveliness. He declared himself tired of mere beauty.He had most of the fashionable vices of the day. Society had done its best to spoil him, and he had just convinced himself that he was thoroughly ennuyeéd by it and everything belonging to it, when fate threw this girl across his path. She was perfect

in her way, he thought. An ideal of girlhood; stately, serious, sweet, unconscious--alluring, without knowledge of the fact--enchaining without effort. He had never seen anyone like her."Divinement belle," he murmured to himself now, as his eyes took in the grace of form and feature. "She reminds one of the old régime. She is not suited to our rushing, tearing, excitable, frivolous modern society. And she does not seem to care for me, or wish to keep me here. How different from most women! Is she cold, I wonder, or only asleep still."Somehow he hoped she was only the latter. He might find the waking a pleasant task--a new pastime. As a rule, he had a horror of unmarried women, but this girl--well, she would not throw herself in his path, that was evident. She would want all the wooing done for her. That would indeed be a novel position for him to be placed in. Suddenly she looked up and met his intent gaze, and blushed hotly. That vivid flush charmed him; it seemed to warm the pure cold fairness of the girl, and make her a more vivid reality of womanhood than the stately young goddess she had previously appeared."We are at our destination, monsieur," she said a little haughtily. "Allow me to introduce my mother. Mamma, this gentleman is the Comte de Valtour, who dined with us last evening."Mrs. Heath rose up from her sand heap with as much dignity as she could command. She was not a

bit like her daughter; she was, in fact, the only child of a rich north country ironfounder, whom Clarence Heath, the younger son of a poor baronet, had married for her money."Bourgeois, decidedly," thought the Count, as he returned her by no means dignified salute. "Can they be mother and daughter? Fancy my young divinity ever turning into a mass of flesh and shapelessness and ill-fitting garments like that!"He almost shuddered--the idea was so very dreadful; nevertheless he exerted himself to the utmost to please the good lady; and with Armand de Valtour to try was to succeed. Mrs. Heath was perfectly charmed with him. He accompanied them back to their little painted châlet for that strange meal which the English mind cannot bring itself to consider as breakfast, and there they found pretty little Madame de Savigny in the most delightful of morning wrappers, all cool muslin and soft lace and fluttering azure ribbons. She was enchanted to see the Count, and teased Adrienne prettily for her refusal to come in the sea--it had been so charming, and she had met so many people, and they had laughed and danced, and some of the costumes had been quite too lovely, and so on and on, with a string of pretty babbling nonsense that the girl listened to and smiled at, while Armand de Valtour watched her gravely, and wondering more and more at the contrast between her and the women of his Parisian world.After breakfast he took his leave, declaring his

friend Lamboi would be wondering what had become of him, but Odylle made him promise to come to the Casino with them later on; and with one lingering look at Adrienne, as if to see whether her eyes echoed the invitation, he left."Ma chère;" said Odylle to her friend as the door closed, "you have made good use of your time, I see. Perhaps, after all, it was as well you did not bathe this morning. Candidly, is not Armand de Valtour charming?""That is a word I never could apply to a man," said Adrienne quietly; "it implies so much that is weak and womanly."Odylle shrugged her shoulders. "It expresses the Count perfectly," she said; "and he admires you, that is plain. You don't seem to appreciate the compliment.""He is a most delightful man," chimed in Mrs. Heath. "I have never met anyone like him.""I suppose not," said Odylle dryly. "And he is rich, too. It is such a pity he won't marry. He has a lovely old château in Provence, and he never goes there, and an hôtel in Paris, and everyone adores him. He is in the best society."Mrs. Heath listened eagerly. True, she did not like Frenchmen, and they always made bad husbands, but a title had great charms for her mind. To have a daughter with a château of her own, and to have her called Madame la Comtesse--that would be

indeed happiness! When Adrienne left the room she turned eagerly to Odylle."Did you mean that?" she said; "do you think the Count really admires Adrienne?""Without doubt," said the little Marquise; "one can see that very plainly. I hope he is serious. It would be so charming for Adrienne to marry a countryman of mine, and live in Paris, too. What delightful times we would have!""Adrienne is so strange," said her mother. "I wish she were like you, dear Marquise. She is so solemn and quiet, and somehow men never got on with her.""She would make a charming Comtesse," repeated Odylle thoughtfully. "I don't think Armand de Valtour would object to that quiet and hauteur in a wife. She would carry his honours with dignity, and she would be a woman one might always trust. On the whole, madame, we had better marry her to the Count. An unmarried girl has no life, no position, no importance in the world; and Adrienne likes France and French ways (except bathing). Yes; I think it would be a good plan. Do not you?""It is all very well to say 'marry her,'" answered Mrs. Heath peevishly; "but Adrienne is not the sort of girl to do just anything one wants. She has refused several very good offers already, and since her father's death his people have been very cool to me. I do not go much into society, and nowadays

a girl must be seen everywhere to find a husband. I am always in terror lest Adrienne should marry a singer or painter or poet, or one of those dreadful people who never have any money, and are always in the clouds. She is full of such fancies.""She has a pretty fair dot, has she not?" asked the little Marquise musingly. She had not paid much attention to Mrs. Heath's lamentation. She was too full of her scheme."Yes; she will have all my money," said her mother. "And if she made a marriage I approved of I would allow her a thousand a year. At my death she will have fifty thousand pounds.""Bien," mused the pretty little woman. "And Armand won't object to a fortune. He is pretty much embarrassed, I know. Yes; we cannot do better. I will give him a hint. You can arrange it for Adrienne, madame," she added aloud."Arrange it! My dear Marquise, we are not accustomed to do that sort of thing in England. I could not force Adrienne to take a husband I had selected for her, however much I wished it.""Force! Mais, de bon cœur! No one speaks of force," exclaimed Odylle wonderingly. "You are her mother. She owes you obedience. You tell her what you wish, n'est ce pas? If she be a good daughter she will fall in with those wishes. That is all."Mrs. Heath shook her head."Ah, my dear Marquise, you do not know what

English girls are. We manage things so differently in our country.""Do you?" asked the little Marquise innocently. "I thought I had read in your fashionable journals of society that marriages were always 'arranged.' I have seen it many times.""Oh, that is merely an expression. What you call a façon de parler," said Mrs. Heath explanatorily. "A girl can always marry to please herself in England.""And yet you need a divorce court. How droll! But to return to our subject. Would you like this marriage?""I should be delighted," said Mrs. Heath warmly. "But Adrienne is difficult to please."The Marquise laughed."She is unlike most girls, I know; as unlike them as her name is unlike most English names. Who's choice was that, by the way?""Her father's, of course. Some member of his family originally married a French woman of great beauty and vast wealth. My husband wished to call our daughter after her; indeed, Adrienne resembles her greatly, though she is fairer. I did not like the name. I thought it sounded foreign and outlandish; but, of course, my wishes were never accounted anything in that family.""It is but another reason for this alliance," said the Marquise. "Adrienne will become French like her ancestress.""Unless she objects to the man!" said Mrs. Heath."She will not be so foolish. Leave it all to me," answered Madame de Savigny. "Indeed, if I mistake not, the affair will want little aid. They are both attracted already. It is only a pity Armand de Valtour is not a few years younger, and a little less stout. But then his face is handsome still, and his manners are perfect.""So Adrienne says."The Marquise did not answer. She was absorbed in thought.If she had only known it, her scheme wanted but little help--it was already ripening.Upstairs, in her little room, the girl was kneeling, looking out through the blinds to the sunshiny coast beyond. There was no rainbow of colour now from gay dresses and fluttering figures; all was still and deserted in the noonday heat. Only a solitary figure paced up and down by the blue waves, and the colour rose to the girl's cheeks as she watched him."How different he is from all other men I have seen!" she thought, and then closed the blinds and turned away with a sigh.CHAPTER III.Two weeks went by. Madame de Savigny watched and waited for the ripening of her scheme, and felt a little thrill of triumph as she saw it approaching its desired issue. That the Count de Valtour was in love with Adrienne admitted of no doubt. The girl held for him a singular and unaccountable charm, and he never sought to conceal it. The innocence and honesty of her nature--the purity of her thoughts--the sweet, serious grace of face and manners, all allured him as no woman's charms had allured him yet.When he was not by her side, he watched her with an interest and intentness of which he was scarcely aware. His friend Lamboi was disgusted. This promised to be an affaire sérieuse indeed--no mere phantasy of passion or caprice of fancy; and if Armand de Valtour married, it would not please him at all. But he could not influence his friend in the matter, that he knew; for Armand possessed the virtue--or vice--of obstinacy in an unusual degree. The only thing Lamboi could do was to hold matrimony up to ridicule, which he did; but to his surprise he was stopped by a stern rebuke from Armand."Men would cease to make it a jest," he said, "if they only married the right women."To find fault with Adrienne herself was impossible. All Trouville raved of her beauty, and would have shrined her as a fashionable idol had she so wished it; but she did not. The frivolities and amusements and endless noise and racket did not interest her. It pleased her far better to be on Armand de Valtour's yacht than to tread the planks with the fashionable swarm of gaily-dressed, high-heeled, chattering women, whose souls never seemed to soar above their toilets, and the amusements present or forthcoming of each day--only the worst of it was that the Marquise did not like the sea, and Mrs. Heath was always in terror while on it, so Adrienne could not enjoy her favourite pastime very often.She had not begun to acknowledge to herself the peculiar fascination that the Count held for her. She liked him or thought she liked him, because of his contrast to the other men she met; for Armand de Valtour was observant, and never addressed her in the language of compliment or flattery, seeing how she hated it. Other men, less keen-sighted, sickened and wearied her very soon--foremost among all being Victor Lamboi. She disliked him excessively, and she had not tact or inclination sufficient to conceal that aversion. It did not escape his notice, and certainly in no way contributed to lessen his own dislike to Armand de Valtour's marriage; for it could be only that he intended, thought his friend uneasily,

seeing how he was neglected, and Madame Aurélie's frowns disregarded, for the sake of this grave-faced English girl.Madame de Savigny had not said much to Adrienne. She saw things were drifting very pleasantly in the right direction, and that no guidance was necessary yet. She only dropped words now and then that spoke of Armand de Valtour's nobleness of mind, his chivalrous nature, his generosity to others. These praises were skilfully intermingled with hints of his own indifference to women, and his oft-repeated declaration that one had yet to be found who would come up to his idea of a wife. Adrienne listened and said nothing, but the words sank into her soul, and took deeper root than she herself imagined, and led her to form an idea of his mental characteristics as far above what they were as her own pure dreams and fancies were beyond his powers of comprehension. He admired them vaguely, but as to understanding them--that was a different matter indeed.And the girl, to whom this handsome, courtly man was gradually becoming a hero, never for one moment guessed at the baser passions that lay beneath those outward graces which worldly experience and innate tact led him to display for her eyes alone.Perhaps when Armand de Valtour pleased her best was when he spoke of his own home in Provence. He pictured to her, with, vivid, picturesque words, that old château, gray with age, and lying in the

shelter of tall plane trees and dark orange groves, and all about it the beautiful vineyards and olive trees and rose gardens for which Provence is famed. He told her of the country, where the Rhone and the Var rolled their calm blue waters through fields and plains and vine hills, and of old Roman ruins dating back to far ages, ere ever Provence became a portion of the Turkish empire.He knew all the history of those famous Counts of Provence who once held royal rule in the lovely province ere it was claimed as Crown property. His own ancestors claimed descent from them, he told her; and the girl, in whom pride of race was almost a fault, so intense was it and so deeply rooted, thought more of Armand de Valtour's birth than if he had been the richest man in all France."I suppose that is why I love music so," he said, laughing, to her, as he ended one of his descriptions. "You know the Counts of Provence were famous for their love of the fine arts. But I think the troubadours were rather useless beings on the whole, do not you, mademoiselle? Still, the life has its charms, doubtless. When one is young and the world lies all before one, it is the time for idylls, triumphs. Passions, festivals, ambitions, all these are for later years. When I was young I used to think the perfection of a life would be that of a singer and a poet combined: to write the beauty one dreams and feels, and then let the world hear it in a voice that would command its whole attention--ah!--that

would be something worth living for. But even art seems hardly great now. The singer thinks of the gold he can charm out of his hearers' pockets, and the poet of the editions through which his verses will run; and life is all hurry and struggle, and pushing and scrambling for the laurel wreaths of fame, never calm and peaceful and full of silent beauty as an artist's life should be. And even the great are so soon forgotten! The grave that closes over them is not more cold and deaf than the world they have quitted. Yet I suppose one should not wonder. When eyes and lips are shut in eternal silence what further use can they be?"Adrienne looked at him in wonder. He was not wont to talk like this, and his face had grown more grave and sad than she had ever seen it. She did not know that for once he seemed to feel the folly and emptiness of the life he had spent with the keenness of a sharp regret; that, looking into her pure eyes, some of his lost dreams seemed to wake and stir into life again, and with them came the memory of misspent years and the futility of the very wishes he expressed.All men and all women, too, have some such feeling as this at some moment of their lives, if, indeed, they be not utterly vile, or utterly callous."Somehow one would not think of that if one was great," she said, timidly answering those last words of his after a pause of silence.He looked at her with a start of remembrance."I suppose not," he said, with a faint sigh. "But who is really great, in your sense of the word, in this nineteenth century of wickedness?""There have always been contrasts in the world, have there not?" she said--"good and bad--faithful and faithless--true and false--great and mean? Oh, yes, I think so. And there is always some good in it if one would but take the trouble to look below the surface. But that we so seldom do.""Yes," he said, looking at her with those dark, eloquent eyes that always seemed to say so much more than his lips. "Ah, chère mademoiselle, if only I were young again!""Why?" she asked involuntarily, and then met his glance and blushed rose-red at the innocent question."If I could dare to tell you," he said, and stopped abruptly. Should he woo her English fashion after all? Should he seek from her own lips the answer to his question? He took the slender white hand that hung by her side, and lightly touched it with his lips. "I would make my life more worthy of you," he said.She read his meaning. Her eyes sank; her colour came and went beneath the tender, ardent gaze of those soft southern eyes. He watched her with a thrill of gratified vanity--pleasure--excitement--unlike all former love-making. How beautiful she was, and how natural! Should he speak on?The impulse of the moment was stronger than

prudence. The gay crowd beyond were not paying much attention to the two who had wandered off the plage, and were standing by the silver foam of the slowly rolling waves.Their eyes met, and hesitation was vanquished."You know I love you, do you not?" he said softly. "Can you overlook my years--the difference between us? Will you be my wife?"It was not very eloquent wooing, but it was the most earnest in all Armand de Valtour's life.The girl turned very pale; then raised her face, and looked at him with those calm, serious eyes, whose beauty he loved."Yes!" she said simply, and no more.He bent his head. A flush of triumph came over his face."You shall never repent it," he said earnestly. "I will devote my life to your happiness. But--one word more. Do you--have I the happiness of knowing that you love me?""Would I be your wife else?" she asked simply.He half smiled as he turned and walked by her side back to the crowd they had left."Certainly these English girls are different to ours," he said to himself. "What French girl would have said that?"In the old picturesque Château de Valtours a woman sat with an open letter in her hands. She was a little, slender woman, with white hair, and

a plain, dark-hued face that had no beauty save in the grave sweetness and patience of its expression. She laid the letter down, and a troubled look came into her eyes."Married!" she said, "and so suddenly! An English girl, too. I would almost as soon he had married an American. How strange it seems! And they will be here so soon now!"She took up the letter again, and read the lines that told of the husband's pride and rapture of possession; of the "pearl of price" he had had the good fortune to win; of the marriage which had taken place only a month after he had proposed to the girl; of how they were coming straight to Valtours, and she was to have all in readiness for their arrival, to tell his people to receive their new châtelaine with all honours. All this she read, and a dim sense of trouble came over her. "Will he make her happy?" she thought; "or is it one of his sudden fancies again. Armand married! How odd it seems! He who always declared nothing would induce him to do such a thing."Then, with a sigh, she put aside the letter in her escritoire, and went away to give the necessary instructions to the household for the expected arrival of the young Countess.Armand de Valtour had said truly when he spoke of the beauty of his ancestral home. The fine, gray old château was some way out from the sleepy, picturesque little town, with its narrow streets paved

with rough-pointed stones, and quaint old houses and dark gateways under the ramparts, whose battlements stood out in bold relief against the blue sky.It looked like a town of mediæval romance still, so quaint and old-world was its aspect.The market-place formed its centre--a wide, open space, where the silvery trunks of the great plane trees spread themselves up to the very courtyards of the houses. On market days only the little town seemed to rouse itself to life; at other times it was very still, very peaceful--a little, strange, old-world niche, with quaint, grass-grown nooks, and an air of sleepiness and quiet that seemed to set it apart from all doings with the busy world of which it formed so small and unimportant a part.The château itself stood in a park of vast extent, and all around it were fragrant avenues of orange trees and sweet, dim, flower-shaded paths, and groves of tall palms and rose aisles rich with colour and fragrance, and afar off the blue gleam of a winding river that stole along by green fields and grey olive groves and purple vineyards to the blue sea beyond.In Céline de Valtour's eyes, there was no place so beautiful in all the world as this home where she had spent her life. She had seen gay towns and beautiful cities, but always came back with weariness and contempt for the life of each, and a deeper yearning and more tender love for her own peaceful home under the shelter of its palms and orange groves.She would be no longer mistress of it, she thought,

and sighed as she thought of it. A younger and fairer rival would hold its honours in her hands, and her word would be all-powerful now. Perhaps, too, she would wish for change, or those alterations that modern society calls "improvement," in the beautiful old place."But perhaps she will not care to live here; she may think it dull," thought the old French lady, and almost prayed in her heart that the young bride might think it so, and leave the grey walls and green alleys as her own dwelling-place once more. But she soon stifled the thought, ashamed of its selfishness and disloyalty, and, to make amends for it, set about organising a grand fête to be given the day after her brother's arrival in honour of his marriage.Late one September evening a carriage rolled up to the gates of the château, and a few minutes afterwards Céline de Valtour found herself greeting a tall, slender girl, with a beautiful fair face and deep soft eyes, and a smile that won the old lady's heart at once, as it answered her somewhat stately greeting. The young Countess went straight to her room; she was fatigued after her long journey. Then her sister-in-law turned to Armand de Valtour."She is very beautiful," she said simply. "And you--you are happy?"A smile broke over his face."I never knew what the word could mean till now," he said.A brilliant day dawned for the fête that was to celebrate Armand de Valtour's marriage. It was to take place at some old Roman ruins, an arena of vast extent and notable fame, and was to consist of races, dances, musical competitions, all sorts of games, including those of étranglechat and saute sur autre, and other spectacles, diverting or interesting, as the case might be.All the country people for miles around, all the notabilities of the neighbouring châteaux, and the whole town of Valtour itself, turned out en masse to do honour to the occasion. Stands were erected for the visitors, and decorated with flowers, and covered in from the hot sun-rays, so that they at least might enjoy the fête in comfort, and the scene was picturesque and brilliant enough to have delighted one even more difficult to please and critical of taste than Armand de Valtour. At present he was radiantly happy, and as he stood there among the gay concourse who had come to do him honour, and saw his wife's beautiful face all flushed and sparkling with excitement, and heard on every side the murmurs of admiration for her, of devotion to himself, his heart beat high, a fire of nobler purposes and purer sympathies awoke to bright warm life within his soul; he drew Adrienne's arm within his own and pointed to the excited crowd, now fused into a mass of glittering colour and excited faces, whose shouts of homage were all for him."Look there!" he said, and smiled, with a new

strange feeling of content. "Is it not worth while to live to be so loved?""Yes," she said softly. "How good, how noble you must be to have won such devotion!"A momentary sense of shame flushed his cheeks then. She was such a child still; she took all this homage as a tribute to his own merits, not as the obeisance and duty due to his suzerainship."You shall make me so," he murmured tenderly. "For you alone have shown me where I have failed."He meant the words sincerely enough; but, then, Armand de Valtour had meant so many things sincerely in his life, and--had so soon forgotten them.CHAPTER IV.MERRILY the fête went on, and the young English girl gazed with wonder and delight at the unusual scene.The arena was thronged with picturesque dresses and bright colours. Overhead the sky was blue and cloudless; the sunshine glittered on white walls and gay banners and flying flags, and everywhere were wreaths of flowers and leaves. When the games were over, there was a momentary hush. Armand de Valtour turned to his wife."Now you will hear something you have never heard before, chérie," he said, smiling."What is it?" she asked curiously, as a young man separated himself from the crowd, and advanced to the middle of the vast circle."It is the performance of a tambourinier," said her husband. "There goes the young man. Is it not a curious instrument? One hardly sees them anywhere now, except in Provence. You see it is a small drum; well, that hangs in front of the player, and he beats time on it with one hand, while with the other he plays a pipe called the galoubet, Sometimes in old prints of the Middle Ages one sees such an instru-

ment depicted. At one time it was the only music procurable in Germany, France, and the Netherlands. The old name galoubet is not often used now. They call it a flutet, or flute traversée.""Can they bring music out of that?" asked Adrienne, a little contemptuously."Wait till you hear," said her husband good-humouredly. "It is surprising what a good player will do with that little flute and its three holes. It requires an immense amount of practice to acquire any execution, and, simple as it looks, I know its difficulty well, for when I was a boy I used to play it.""But that young man is not going to play alone. Look! there are a number of others!""So there are--twenty at least. Well, that will be very pretty. I wonder who that young fellow is. How wonderfully handsome!""Yes, is he not?" said Adrienne. "I think I never saw a more perfect face. And the dress is so picturesque, too. Who is he?""I don't know. I must ask Céline. Perhaps he is from one of the neighbouring towns. I don't remember him at all. But then it is so long since I have been here.""And it is so beautiful, and they all love you so," said Adrienne reproachfully. "And it is your real home after all.""It will be now," he said, looking with a tender smile into the beautiful upraised eyes.She blushed and looked away."How pretty!" she cried suddenly.The music had commenced--odd, wild, barbarous to cultivated ears, but yet with a strange sweetness and power in its fantastic strains that suited well the scene and place. When the first ring of players had ceased, the young man whom the countess and her husband had remarked stepped forward by himself.There was a general hush. It was evident the young musician was known and famous in his way. Armand de Valtour turned to his sister."Who is he, Céline?" he asked."That is André Brizeaux," said Mdlle. de Valtour. "He is quite a genius in his way. He is the son of old Brizeaux, who has the farm of Tour des Champs. You remember him, do you not, Armand?""Oh, yes. But he was only a little lad when I last saw him. I should not have recognised him again.""He is really quite a genius," continued Mdlle. de Valtour. "And he has a lovely voice, too. Music is a perfect passion with him. His father is in despair about him, though. He says he will do no work; his whole time is spent with his instrument. He is the best tambourinier in Provence. You hear how the people applaud him!""It is beautiful," said Adrienne breathlessly. "To think such music could come out of that!""It is the old fable of the god and the reed, is it not?" said Armand de Valtour. "The gift of the

one making perfect the imperfections of the other. That is a Noël--is it not fine?"Adrienne was listening attentively to the young player. To her his music had all the charm of novelty--all the fire of genius. From the Noël he passed on to a triumphal hymn; its grand rhythmic measure rolled over the silent crowd like the sweep of the mistral; faces flushed, eyes glistened, a strong excitement thrilled the audience. Armand de Valtour looked at Adrienne. She was very pale, and her great dark eyes never left the face of the young musician. A feeling, half of anger, half of envy, swept over her husband's heart. He did not like to think that any other man had power to move and stir that usually calm and undemonstrative nature. She was an instrument whose varied tones he alone liked to produce, and he was jealous of the power that brought tears to the soft grave eyes and stirred her soul with this subtle indefinable sensation.When the music ceased, a torrent of applause greeted the young player. Again and again was he recalled, and Armand de Valtour himself beckoned him over to his seat, and complimented him on his performance.The young man only bowed gracefully in answer to those gracious speeches. He had seen the tears still glistening on the long lashes of the young countess; in his heart he thought he had never received tribute so sweet before."Will you not sing, too?" asked Céline de Valtour,

bending forward to her young protégé. "I should like Madame la Comtesse to hear you. See--they are not satisfied; they are still applauding."The young man looked doubtfully from the shouting crowd to the aristocratic group on the stand."If madame desires?" he said hesitatingly. He looked only at Adrienne. In his heart he was thinking how beautiful she was--more like an angel than a woman--and before her he felt timid of his own powers, and reluctant for once to use them.The young Countess turned to him with a sweet winning grace. "Pray, sing," she said. "I should so like to hear you."He bowed low."Madame's wishes are commands," he said gracefully, and turned away to resume his place on the platform."He has put away his tambourin," said Armand de Valtour, looking at his sister."Yes. When he sings he uses the guitar. I gave him one," she said.He struck a few chords, and the great crowd grew silent in an instant. Then, with his eyes on the blue sky and drifting clouds that canopied the vast arena, his fingers striking a plaintive note from time to time, he began to sing.Slow and soft--a little tremulous at first--the rich clear tones of that beautiful tenor voice rang out on the air. He sang a love song of Provence, such a

song as a troubadour of old might have sung, while the stars gleamed overhead, and, at the lattice above, the eyes he loved best on earth were watching through the dusk."Did I not say truly? Is not his voice perfect?" said Céline de Valtour softly in her brother's ear.He made a slight movement of impatience. Adrienne was again engrossed, and that ill-pleased him."Yes," he answered, with reluctance. "It is too good to be lost here. What a stir he would make in the cities.""He is better here," said the old French lady. "The cities! What would they give him? Fever, restlessness, discontent; paying for God's gift with gold-robbing his life of purity, freedom, peace. No, he is better here. Do not tempt him away.""I have no intention of tempting him," said Armand de Valtour, shrugging his shoulders. "The nightingale sings best in its rose-thickets, I know. He may remain here, if he choose, for me."Adrienne made an impatient movement. The voices spoiled the effect of that wonderful singing, which now rose clarion-like to heaven--now sank soft as a sigh to earth. It ceased at last, and only the tremor of the leaves as the wind stirred them to and fro was audible in the breathless stillness. André Brizeaux had never sung like that in the hearing of anyone present, and for a moment they seemed to

recognise something in him greater and grander than they had even imagined.It is a great gift, a beautiful voice. If there is one thing that leads our thoughts to heaven, and stirs within our souls some purer, loftier feeling than the dull cares of earth permit, it is music; and no music is so perfect in its utterance, so enthralling in its power, as the music of a pure and perfect human voice.It is no wonder we idolise our singers as we do. Well enough we know the rarity and value of the gift they own. It was such a gift as this that André Brizeaux possessed, and as yet was only half conscious that he did so. To sing seemed only a natural impulse, and music was in his soul and in his nature, so that all sights and sounds of earth and heaven seemed but a part of his intense worship of that most perfect art.He had come of a musical race, but in him the gift seemed loftier and greater than in any of his predecessors. They had all been tambouriniers, and content with holding the championship of that one branch of musical art throughout their own district of Provence. But André was something more. He was a musician heart and soul, and Céline de Valtour had long ago discovered that, and encouraged and taught him herself, until she was fain to acknowledge that he had outstripped her own musical powers, and held within his soul a loftier genius than she had ever possessed. Much of his musical training had been

that of church singing, the old curé of Valtours being only too thankful for his assistance in the choir, and proud of the perfect voice that pealed forth the solos of some great mass, which would otherwise have been unknown to the peasantry and people. It was good training--none could have been better--and it seemed to foster and increase the young man's passion, until all other duties and employments became worthless and uninteresting, and his father, recognising that his only son was no longer of any use to him in his farm work or market bargainings, almost cursed the gift which others envied.It is often so. In his own house the poet, like the prophet, is of no account. To be unlike those around us, and superior to them intellectually, is an affront they are sure to resent; and they can best do that by mockery and ridicule and that contemptuous disdain of the gift they envy, which is the most cruel and crushing obstacle its possessor has to contend with.Something of all this André Brizeaux knew, and it had done him much harm. It would have done him much more but for the sympathy and help of two powerful friends--the curé and the lady of Valtours. They had assisted him in every way, and given him such aid in perfecting his musical knowledge as refined and intelligent minds could give. To-day the genius within him seemed for once to have burst the bonds of timidity and restraint. The beautiful face that had smiled on him, the sweet voice that had bidden him sing, fired his whole soul with a longing

to be for once great in the eyes of his fellow-men, to lay his homage at the feet of this exquisite creature in such guise as would set him apart from others, and give him a place in her memory.It was a romantic notion, one more worthy of the troubadours whose lays he sang, than of a peasant youth of these days; but André Brizeaux was in his soul a poet, and that, in most men's minds, means something akin to madness.The song ceased at last, and in the momentary silence that ensued the young Countess de Valtour leaned forward and threw at the feet of the singer her bouquet of white roses. The act was the signal for a torrent of applause, a thunder of acclamations; and as the beautiful flushed face of the young singer was raised from the flowers over which he stooped, his eyes looked across the sea of excited faces before him with such triumph and delight in their depths as made Adrienne de Valtour wonder and smile.Her husband's voice sounded low and stern on her ear--"There was no need to do that," he said; "we are not at the opera. And after all, he is only a pleasant lad!"Adrienne looked at him in wonder."Are you vexed?" she asked. "I did not know it would matter. After all, it was for us he sang, and I have never heard anything more beautiful, even at the opera.""Do not tell him so, pray," said her husband coldly.

"I daresay he is conceited enough of his own powers already!""In saying that you wrong him," said his sister warmly, overhearing the words, and feeling indignant at the injustice they did to her protégé. "André is of the sweetest and most humble nature possible. He thinks far too little of himself, if anything.""Well, well, let us go home now," said the Count impatiently. "It is insufferably hot here, and I am sure Adrienne must be fatigued."The young wife rose at once. She wondered at the vexation and impatience evinced for so slight a cause; but she took her husband's arm, and, bowing to the people near, left the arena with him and his sister.To André Brizeaux the place seemed suddenly to grow dark and chill. He put the roses in his breast and took his instruments and left also, and when his friends surrounded him and uttered compliments and congratulations, he shook them off impatiently.He wanted to be alone--alone with his own thoughts, that were like the scent of the roses, perfumed with the memory of the giver.A little way out, on the white shaded road that led to his own home, a girl overtook him. She was very pretty. She wore the customary peasant's dress, and her shy, soft eyes lit up with sudden rapture as she came up to his side. He smiled on her; the smile was grave and a little absent."Ah, Maï, is it you? Are you all alone?""Gran'mère stopped to see the end of the fête;
she comes home with old Michael in the cart," answered the girl. "And you, André, why have you left so soon?""I was tired," he said abruptly. "They grow stupid, these games--one knows them all so well and who will win. Ah! how wearisome life is here.""André!" cried the girl, in surprise. "What has come to you to say that?"It sounded like rank heresy in her ears. Like all children of the soil, her own immediate dwelling-place and its surroundings seemed to her the fairest spot in the world. For generations past her people had lived here, and married, and borne children, and died, and their graves were in the little country churchyard, where trees waved softly overhead, and birds sang in the boughs. To leave the place, or even wish to leave it, seemed almost a sin, and that André should say such a thing struck her with absolute horror. They had grown up from childhood--they were affianced lovers these two, and yet she understood but little of the nature of the man she loved; and with each year the difference between them increased, though she herself was unconscious of it."Yes; why not?" he said impatiently. "It is all very well for you, Maï, to go on as you do from day to day, one just like another; but I am different. To me it grows hateful--this endless sowing, and reaping, and marketing, and harvesting. I should

like to see the great cities of the world--to be famous. Music has made many men that before to-day. It might do the same for me."Maï was silent. Her heart grew heavy as she heard the words; but she was as utterly incapable of comprehending their full meaning as of understanding those wild strange airs which her lover played, or the chants of the masses that he sang. She was perplexed and sorrowful. No discontent of her own homely, healthy life had ever entered into her honest little soul, and it was a simple life enough. Why was André not the same? She could not argue--peasants never can. They either laugh, or abuse, or are silent. Maï was the latter."Of course, you do not understand," continued André impatiently. "No one here does. You are all like a flock of sheep--one follows another. What one does all must do. I have learned to think for myself.""And it makes you discontented?" asked Maï. In her own mind she thought it would be best never to think at all if the result was to upset the peaceful tenor of one's life in that way.The sun had grown low and red. The dusk was falling. She walked on by his side, keeping pace with his swift steps, and troubled at heart (being a sympathetic, tender little soul) because he was troubled."And after to-day, and all the people applauding, and the Comtesse giving you her own flowers!" she

murmured. "Is it not better to be loved like that here among your own people than struggle among the many who are great, or who want to be great, out there in the cold hard world?"André frowned impatiently."You think so, doubtless," he muttered. "But then you do not understand." And he touched the white roses in his breast, and sighed."It is always so," he murmured restlessly. " Five hundred think all alike until one among them throws off the yoke of subjection, and then the other four hundred and ninety-nine cry out at him in wonder. Can I help it if I see things and hear things that no one else does? That I long for another sort of life--fair, poetic, beautiful--with sweet gifts and high ambitions, and a fame that lives far longer than our own poor lives. I suppose I am one of those to whom dreams are more than bread--my father always tells me so.""I think you are," said little Maï gently. "But, then, someone must think of the bread, or we should all starve. Is it not so?""Yes, of course," he answered, in the same restless, impatient tone, that to-night held no lover's tenderness for her. "But that does not make it any better--one cannot help one's feelings."The girl wondered if he was right.She was too accustomed to look up to him as something greater, wiser, cleverer, than anyone else she knew, to dispute anything he said. In her own inno-

cence and simplicity, he had always seemed to her as a king among other men; but, then, she loved him, and loved him, too, with an exceeding pure and tender love, and bent humbly to his wisdom, knowing its superiority to her own instincts, and never daring to dispute its decrees.She was only a little peasant, brought up among peasants, accustomed to hard work and endless labour--often hungry and tired, and full of troubles homely enough, perhaps, in their way, but great and important to her. It was all her life, and all she had to look forward to; but she had never murmured at its hardships, never grown discontented at the burden of endurance it demanded, never forgotten to thank God for its safety, peace, and shelter every night and morning that she sought rest or awoke from it.Perhaps in her own way she was happier than André Brizeaux. Perhaps? But, then, she had no genius in her little innocent humble soul. She was only patient and content.CHAPTER V.As dinner went on at the château, the clouds began to clear from Armand de Valtour's brow.After all, why should he be jealous or annoyed? Adrienne was a child still, easily moved by the impulse of the moment. She had thrown her flowers to the young player because his music pleased her, not because of his handsome face or the homage of admiration his eyes had paid her. By the time dessert was on the table, he had regained his usual good humour, and talked and laughed to his sister and his wife in the gay and pleasant fashion habitual to him.Dinner in France is always the most social of meals. Conversation is its special grace. It is well-known that French people hate dining alone; they must have someone to talk to. Armand de Valtour liked his table to be dainty and tasteful, and his meal enlivened with wit and intelligence. If anything, Adrienne was a little too grave, but she had a keen and true appreciation--a faultless taste and ready tact. With such qualities as these, she could not fail to be a charming companion, even without taking into consideration that he was still very much in love, and that her beauty made her a feast for his eyes whenever they pleased to rest on her.As for his sister, she would always be a pleasant companion. She could discuss politics as well as he himself; she was perfectly well read in most of the topics of the day; she was a good linguist and musician. She loved art for its own sake, and could thoroughly appreciate it. Added to this, she had the sweetest temper and readiest sympathy that ever woman possessed, and adored her brother with her whole heart, even though she could not be blind to the imperfections of his character.With two such women beside him--with all the surroundings of wealth, rank, and perfect taste, it was no wonder that Armand de Valtour felt his ill-humour rapidly evaporating, and became once more his bright and radiant self.The conversation turned at last to the fête, and naturally from that to the young hero of the day, André Brizeaux. Armand felt he could discuss him quite good-temperedly now."You must come to the farm and see old Brizeaux," said Mdlle. de Valtour, after a long eulogium on her protégé. "And close by is old Manon's cottage--you remember Manon, do you not, Armand? That little grandchild of his has grown up so pretty. She is to marry young Brizeaux, I believe. It will be quite a grand marriage for her. The old gran'mère is so very poor, and the girl has no other relative.""I will give her a dowry on her wedding-day," said the Count good-humouredly. "What say you, Adrienne? Shall we go and see these people to-

morrow? I suppose I must look up all my old friends again.""Oh, yes, I should like it very much," said the young wife eagerly. "I want them all to like me, and I must try and make friends with them, too.""It would be difficult for any one not to like you, chérie," said her husband lovingly. "I think you will soon win me absolution for my own sins of neglect; but then, Provence is so dull after Paris. You will think so yourself when you live there.""Do you intend going to Paris soon?" asked his sister."Not till the winter," he answered.Adrienne looked up quickly from the peach she was peeling. "I thought we were to live here," she said anxiously."For a time--yes," answered her husband; "but not altogether; I could not suffer that. I must introduce my wife to my own world; I expect it will go mad about you, Adrienne. Does that idea please you?""No," she said gravely; "I want no admiration but yours, Armand."He smiled. "She means that," he thought to himself. Aloud he added, "That is very sweet of you to say, dear one; but I am not so selfish as to hide my treasure from the world's eyes."He did not add that the world's admiration would be her hall mark of merit in his own--that to be envied her possession would gratify his vanity and

stimulate a passion which was not pure enough or noble enough to live long without such aid."Come," he said at last, when the long dinner was over, "we will go out on the terrace. The night is fine and warm. You will not object to my smoking, Adrienne?""Not at all!" she answered, rising gladly to accompany him. They had not been alone a single moment all day, and she was yet too new to marital habits to recognise the difference between lover and husband."I will go to the salon and play," said Céline de Valtour. "If the windows are open you can hear the music quite distinctly.""That will be charming, ma sœur," said Armand de Valtour, kissing her hand. Then he offered his arm to his wife, and together they went out on to the beautiful terrace. The scents of the rose-gardens stole up from their fragrant thickets, the golden gleam of the orange fruit shone in the starlight.Adrienne clasped her husband's arm and looked up at him with softly shining eyes."How beautiful it is, this home of yours," she said; "I wonder you ever care to leave it."He smiled down at the lovely wistful face."I am tired of it--a little," he said. "I know it all so well, you see, and then life here is always like this--beautiful enough, I daresay, but utterly monotonous, utterly insipid; I grow weary of it after a time."A troubled look stole into her eyes."Do you get tired of all things that you know well?" she asked. "If so, my turn will come also, I suppose.""Do not fear that," he said, laughing; "you are not the sort of woman of whom one tires easily."She sighed."You cannot tell that," she said. "You have known me but a short time, and then you love me now. Will you always do so?""Always," he murmured passionately.It was so easy for him to promise such fidelity--here alone with a beautiful woman in the starlit glory of the late summer night, with her eyes looking up to his, a world of love in their earnest depths.She sighed no longer. A smile parted her lips. His arm stole round the graceful form. Her head drooped upon his breast.She was so happy now--so dreamlessly, perfectly happy. What had she to fear, or life to offer, that could rob her of her new-found bliss? But into the future no mortal eye can see, and the magic of love's giving is only of the present.The warmth of the morning sun was glittering over roofs and fields and vineyards. It glittered, too, on a ruined tower, half-buried in ivy, and with masses of creepers and wild blossoms covering its decaying stone-work--a beautiful place in its way, and with a history of its own dating from the Saracen invasion.

One portion of the building was still in perfect preservation, and it was here that André Brizeaux dwelt. It had belonged to his ancestors for generations. They had all lived there, and worked in the fields and vineyards around, and one and all were prouder of their dwelling-place than if it had been one of the neatest and most commodious of farmhouses.No one was quite sure how it had come to be the property of the Brizeaux family. But a long lease of inheritance is in itself a claim not easily disputed; and there was no one who cared to dispute it in this instance. Close by stood the little cottage of Gran'mère Manon. Beside it the tower looked very grand and important, even though it was so old, and decaying rapidly, and in parts only fit for the birds, who built their nests among the ivy. The blue waters of the Rhone gleamed through the orchard boughs. The air was cool and fresh--the sunlight broken with shade--it was all so still, so fair, so peaceful; and yet André Brizeaux, coming out with his tambourine in hand, looked round on it all, and only felt his discontent increase."To be here all one's life--why, the very birds are better off," he sighed; and he leaned against the old stone wall and began to play with a cloud on his handsome face and a frown on his brow, that even his music was for once powerless to banish. Yet suddenly the cloud vanished as if by magic. He laid aside his instrument, and went quickly forward. He

saw his father speaking to two persons, who had apparently alighted from a little basket carriage, now standing at the gate. They were the Count and Countess de Valtour.The young man hurried forward--his face radiant, his eyes bright. He bowed low to the beautiful girl, who indeed seemed to him as an angel--a being from another world, so fair was she in her youthful grace and exquisite loveliness."Ah, André, we have come to see you," said Armand de Valtour. "I did not remember you yesterday. You have grown up to manhood these last five years. I was just telling your father he does not look a day older; just as well and healthy as ever. No--I will not go in. I prefer the outer air, and so, I know, does the Countess, your new châtelaine, Brizeaux. Of course you have heard? Ah, yes. And you gave us a charming welcome yesterday. It is quite refreshing to share in country ways and sights once more.""Will not Madame la Comtesse be seated?" asked André. "And may one offer anything? It is but little we can give--this is a poor place for a great lady's presence. But some fruit--some milk--""Thank you," said the soft, clear voice, whose music seemed the sweetest the young Provençal's ears had ever heard. "I should be glad of some milk. I am thirsty."With his own hands the young man waited on her, marvelling almost whether he was not in a dream--

whether this rare and beautiful vision would not melt into air and leave him desolate. She seated herself on the old stone seat, leaving the chair to her husband, and sipped her milk and ate some of the grapes and figs the young Provençal had piled up on the humble wooden platter. The sound and scent of the fresh breeze, and the ripening orchards, and rustling leaves came to her as she sat there making the summer morning an idyl for her, even as it was for him."Will you not play to us?" she asked presently. "I see your instrument is there.""With pleasure, if madame really cares to hear," he said, and coloured all over his handsome boyish face as he met those grave, sweet eyes again.He went over to the well beside which his instrument lay. The Count seated himself astride on the wooden chair and lit a cigar. The old man Brizeaux took a seat on a block of stone near the doorway. André began to play. Not the stirring strains of the previous day, but a slow plaintive air that was sad as despair--sweet as the summer hour. He threw his whole soul into the music. It was to her he played. Of anyone or anything else he never thought. He made quite a poetic picture himself, leaning there against the old well--the green leaves of the wild fig-tree above his head--the background of blue sky and misty hills stretching far away behind; the breeze tossing the dark curls of his hair to and fro as he played--the linen of his shirt

open at the neck and displaying the sculpture-like beauty of the bare throat, which, unlike his face, had escaped all sun-tan, and was fair and delicate as a woman's.Adrienne watched him with ever-deepening interest. His music was so sad and strange, and his own grace and youth and beauty so marked and out of keeping with the peasant's garb he wore and the peasant's life he lived. Armand de Valtour was keeping time to the music, and enjoying the fresh morning air, the fragrant cigar, the sense of peace and rest and stillness everywhere. The music brought back the scenes and days of his boyhood--the memory of a life free from the fret and fever of the world--the sins and follies of his later years.A sigh rose to his lips. "I wish I could have my time back again," he thought; "how differently I would spend it."All the listeners were engrossed with their own emotions. They did not notice that the rude curtain before the doorway was suddenly drawn aside, and that behind the folds a girl's face looked out on the scene before her. She wore the dress of a peasant; the sun-tanned beauty of the dark, picturesque face was troubled and perplexed. Her eyes rested on the figure of the young Countess, and from thence turned to the dreamy face of the player. With some subtle instinct of a truth she dimly understood, the girl's eyes watched the two young faces--that of the high-born lady and the peasant."Is it she who has made him discontented?" she thought, and a great sadness and trouble seemed to weigh down her usual light heart and happy nature. Dreariness stole over the blue sky, and the radiant sunlight seemed to lose all life and colour. With a sudden impulse she dropped the curtain and went back into the kitchen, and thence out by another door and across the old shady garden path, back to her own home."Did you give my message to Brizeaux?" asked Gran'mère Manon, meeting her on the threshold."No," said the girl abruptly. "They were busy--they could not attend to me. They have grand visitors there.""Visitors! But whom? That is unusual for the Brizeaux family.""The Comte and Comtesse de Valtour," said Maï. "André is playing to them.""Perhaps they will come here," said Gran'mère
eagerly. "The Comte is always kind, and he never forgets me. And the young lady--I could not see her well at the fête yesterday; my eyes are weak, and she was so far away. But she is very beautiful, is it not so, Maï?""Yes," answered the girl, while a strange jealous pang shot through her heart. How coarse and common she would look beside that vision of loveliness; and yet such a thought had never crossed her mind before, when she had seen other ladies

as daintily dressed, as beautiful in their way as the young Countess.Maï felt frightened at herself. Frightened at the pain in her heart--the discontent in her soul--the sudden anger at André--the sudden aversion to the fair young bride, who had come among them all. What had happened to make her feel thus--what had come to her in this short space of time? She could not tell. Only a pain she could not stifle was ever in her breast, and all the golden beauty of the summer day, for her, grew clouded and obscured.Meanwhile André played on and on. All the sweet old national airs--all the quaint songs and dances of Provence, of which he had so great a store, and then at Adrienne's bidding he laid aside his instrument and began to sing.Out there, in the pure bright sunlight, his voice rose clear as a lark's to heaven. The birds flew in and out of the ivy; the scents from ripening vineyards and late roses came to them on the breeze. The sunlight fell warm and golden on the sweet soft air, but the singer's eyes were only on the fair face that looked up to the drifting clouds, the flush of the climbing roses about her head as she leant against the old grey walls.She was his inspiration. He sang only to her, forgetful of time, and place, and everything, save only that one presence, which held in it something divine for him. He sang first the old familiar airs

of his native land, and then those grand and cultured melodies which he had been taught, and whose difficulties were difficulties no longer, since to the charm of perfect voice had been also added the charm of cultivation and skilful training.Armand de Valtour felt moved, as few things had power to move him. When the voice ceased, he sprang from his chair, and grasped the hand of the young peasant in both his own."A thousand thanks!" he cried eagerly. "Your singing is marvellous. Why, André, you are a genius. No wonder you care little for plodding in fields and driving oxen. Brizeaux, you should send your boy to Paris. He would make his fortune."To Paris! Ah, Monsieur le Comte," sighed the young man. "It is my one dream. If only it might be!""To Paris! Say rather to Satan!" muttered the old man, rising from his seat on the stone, and hobbling over to where the Count was standing. "No, no, monsieur; leave him alone. He is a good lad and pure, and with no evil ways; and he has a good home here, and bread to eat, and all that he needs. I know what they are, those cities. Body and soul they kill you, surely--greedily--without remorse. You may ask how do I know? Ah, but I do. The gold, the grandeur, the glitter on the surface; the fever of unrest and misery beneath. Life all a pageant to look at--a dark and weary burden to

bear. No--not with any will of mine shall my son go to the cities!"The Count smiled. "You are wrong, friend," he said. "Life is everywhere just what we choose to make it. It is possible to be pure and innocent and brave of heart even in a city, and your son has a great gift. It seems unjust to him to stifle it. Do not you think so, Adrienne?"His wife had come up to his side. She looked now at the face of the young singer, while his burning eyes drooped before her clear, frank gaze."I do not know," she said softly. "Doubtless his father is the best judge. For himself, if life here contents him, it is calm, and safe, and useful in its way, no doubt. He might regret leaving it, even if he found the fame his voice should command."André looked up at her as she ceased speaking. "I am not content," he said, in a low, half-stifled voice. "I never shall be content--here.""Hush! that is ungrateful," said the old man fretfully. "You would not be any happier in Paris.""I might be great some day," sighed his son."Great! That is always your word! Dreams will earn no bread," said his father contemptuously. "I have lived here and worked and laboured as my fathers and their fathers before them have done. Why cannot you do the same? You can sing and play just as well, can you not? and your own people love you and give you honest praise for what you do, and you are the best tambourinier and the sweetest

singer in all Provence. What more do you want?"The young man was silent. His eyes rested on the beautiful sweet face and dreaming eyes of the young Countess. He moved restlessly away from his father's hand."You do not understand," he said, using unconsciously the same reproach he had used to Maï. "And I cannot quite explain. Only if you would let me go--""Yes, let him go," said the Count good-humouredly. "I will look after him. I have plenty of influence in Paris. Who knows but that he may be singing in the Grand Opera there before many years are over his head! You would be proud enough of him then, Brizeaux."He urged the request without any particular motive. He cared little enough whether the young man left his home or not. The impulse of the moment, the genuine admiration he had felt for a talent so striking, had carried him away in a fit of enthusiasm. The ill-humour of the day before, the spasms of jealousy he had experienced, were quite forgotten now. The young musician looked at him eagerly; his face was pale beneath the bronze of sun and air; his lips quivered."Do you mean it, Monsieur le Comte?" he asked. "Would you really help me?""Most assuredly," answered Armand de Valtour. "Come up to Paris this winter and you will see.

Adrienne, ma chère, it grows late, and we have other of my people to see. We must be going now.""Madame has done us a great honour," said the old man, bowing low to the beautiful young châtelaine. "We shall not easily forget her visit."André was silent.He went with them to the carriage and held open the gate, and stood bare-headed before them as they drove away. His brain was in a whirl; a mad ecstasy came over him. To go to Paris--to realise his dreams of fame--to be in the same city that held her! The idea was intoxicating--delirious! He stood there till the carriage was out of sight. Then, forgetful of home duties, of his father's behests, of all the household offices he by rights should have discharged, he rushed away through the green fields, fleet as a hare, joyous as a bird, on, on to where solitude and peace were to be found--in the heart of the deep woods, with only the music of babbling brook and tossing leaves to mingle with that other music of which his heart was full.Nature to him was a closer friend than any human soul had ever been. Men say that poets are but madmen!CHAPTER VI.ADRIENNE and her husband drove through the winding roads, and under boughs where the spoils of autumn were ripe and ruddy. The heat of the sun was tempered by the cool breath of the mistral, which had suddenly sprung up, as it often does in Provence, and blew in strong gusts from time to time. It waved the silver boughs of the olives, and tossed the vine leaves to and fro. It rustled in the briar-wood hedges, and brought sweet odours from crushed and ripened fruits and dried grasses on its strong, rough wings."It is almost too strong to be pleasant," said Armand de Valtour, as a fiercer gust than usual tossed off his hat and sent it whirling into the road."It is delicious, I think," said Adrienne, laughing at his discomfiture, and reining in the ponies so that he might dismount and secure his truant headgear, with which the wind was taking strange liberties. He pursued it as it rolled over from place to place, escaping his hand just when he thought he had secured it. Suddenly a little figure flashed out from the hedge and handed him the recreant article with a smile and a deep courtesy. It was little Maï.Armand did not know her, but he saw how pretty

was the little ripe berry of a face, how graceful and well-formed the rounded figure. He replaced his hat and thanked her for its capture."Do you live near here?" he said. "What is your name?""I live at Gran'mère Manon's," she said. "The cottage yonder by the Tour des Champs.""By Brizeaux's farm!" exclaimed Armand de Valtour. "I have just come from there. Then you are little Maï?""Yes, monsieur.""How changed you are! To think what a difference five years can make! Ah, there is the Countess; you must come and speak to her."The pony-carriage was close at hand now; but the girl shrank back with visible reluctance. Yet she lacked courage to carry out her own impulse and avoid the young Countess, and in another instant the beautiful face was beside her."This is little Maï. You remember Céline told us of her," said Armand de Valtour. "Thanks to her I have recovered my hat. Phew! what a chase I had!"He got into the low carriage as he spoke. He was flushed and warm with his chase. His dark, smiling eyes were still glancing admiringly at the picturesque face of the little peasant.The young Countess said a few kind, graceful words, and then drove off. Maï had been stupid and embarrassed. She had said nothing--only looked

with admiration at the beauty she half envied, half wondered at. Of the Count she never thought, and when he turned back and waved his hand as she stood motionless there, she hardly noticed the action."What a pretty little thing she is," said Adrienne admiringly. "She is betrothed to André Brizeaux, is she not?""So they say," answered Armand de Valtour. "Not that he is fit to be a husband; he is full of dreams, and thinks only of his music. What an odd fate that he should be a peasant.""You say truly--he is not fit for the life," said Adrienne. "He has real talent, that boy. It is a pity he could not have full scope for it.""Yes, it is," said her husband, with an odd little smile. "He would be happier in Paris, I do not doubt. I wonder what the little girl would say to that?""He might become great and famous," continued Adrienne musingly. "She would be proud enough, then, when he came back to her.""Ma chère!" laughed her husband, "if he became great and famous, there would be little chance of his coming back to her. I know the world, and men are made of pretty much the same stuff in all ranks and grades of life. No, our young genius would sing for other birds than the little brown swallow under the cottage eaves, once we gave him liberty of flight.""It would bring unhappiness to her," said Adrienne softly. "Ah, that would be sad! Doubtless she loves him dearly. She might make him happy. Shall we leave them alone, Armand? After all it might be best. He will soon forget his dreams, if he loves her.""Au contraire, chérie," smiled the Count. "We will send him to Paris to try his strength. He will prove it there--if he loves her."There was silence between husband and wife after that last remark. Something in Armand de Valtour's look and tone made Adrienne uncomfortable. She could not understand him quite. It seemed as if he wished to separate these lovers--to make them unhappy; to throw the young ignorant dreamer into the maelstrom of Paris life, and there leave him to sink or struggle.The smile on his lips had been almost cruel, yet even while she imagined it so, she strove to think she had been mistaken. Armand was surely too kind, too generous to do anything that would hurt any one's feelings, or affect their happiness.While these thoughts were perplexing her, her husband's voice sounded again."Would you not like to ask Madame de Savigny to stay with you for a time?" he said. "I fear you will find Valtours very dull.""Dull!" she cried, and turned and looked at him with pain and wonder in her soft eyes. "Dull--with you, Armand!"He laughed a little."Flatterer!" he said. "Does my society content you sufficiently, then?""Oh, yes," she said, her voice pained and grieved now. "We have been married so short a time, Armand; I do not care for anyone else to disturb our home. I like to think we are all in all to each other.""And so we are, my dearest," he said fondly, as he looked into the beautiful, troubled eyes. But to himself he thought, "Does she expect me to play the part of mari amoreux always? I hope not."His words banished the cloud on Adrienne's brow. She loved him so dearly, and she never doubted but that he returned that love with equal ardour."Odylle always told me that Frenchmen made adorable husbands," she said, aloud. "You know, Armand, I was half afraid to marry you, and then you wanted everything done in such a hurry. I took counsel with Odylle at last, but she set all my doubts at rest.""I am glad of that," said Armand de Valtour dryly. "She is very happy herself. Her husband is a delightful being.""I have never seen him," said Adrienne eagerly. "I should so like to know him. I was sorry he was not at Trouville.""No, strange to say, he is not as often with his charming wife as one might suppose," remarked Armand de Valtour.Adrienne looked at him quickly, but his face was not an easy one to read when he saw fit to hide his feelings. It was calm and inscrutable now, and told her nothing."I hope they are happy," she said hesitatingly."Happy--of course," laughed her husband; "why not? She has money--a title--a beautiful home. What more does a woman need?""Love," said the girl softly."Perhaps they love each other, too," he answered, more gravely. "The world says not--but the world is often wrong."Adrienne flushed hotly."I know the world speaks lightly enough of marriage," she said. "But, oh, Armand, in our case let it never say such things. Why should not a French marriage be as happy as an English one?""Some say French marriages are a great deal happier," said Armand de Valtour, with the same odd smile on his lips. "In any case, the parties must make the best of their bargain here, for release is not easy. In your country, ma chère, it is different. When the chain galls it can be cut asunder.""But of what use is that?" asked Adrienne earnestly. "Such freedom is only shame. A second marriage contracted under such circumstances is, in my idea, no marriage at all. Those who, in the sight of God, are united by a bond so sacred are one in an indissoluble union until life ends.""How seriously you speak. If those are you ideas, it is just as well you have married a Frenchman, chérie. Tell me, you who count love so sacred and important a thing--do you believe it can endure as long as the rite it consecrates? Do you think it lasts a lifetime, as does the bondage of the marriage ring you wear?"He touched her hand lightly as he spoke, and something in the light touch, the mocking tone, made the girl's heart beat with a sudden vague fear."Surely," she said, "if it is worth the name.""You think, then, you will always love me--love me as you do now?""As I do now?" she murmured dreamily. "That I cannot say. It is not possible to promise for the future. You may change. I--"She stopped, then looked at him."I love and honour you now," she said softly. "I have given you my heart--my love--my life. It is for you to preserve them to yourself in the years to come, or cast them back as valueless.""I shall never do that, believe me," he said, with an earnestness that was sincere enough then; and with sudden reverence he stooped and kissed the hand beside him--kissed it as a believer might kiss the shrine at which his knee is bent. For that moment, with the light of those steadfast eyes looking up with untold love to his own, she seemed to him not so

much a woman to be loved, as a woman to be reverenced."She would make me a better man were I always beside her," he thought, with an emotion that was true enough--while it lasted.The mistral was still blowing in stormy gusts; but the air was hot as that of an eastern summer between those fierce outbursts. The pony-carriage trotted on and stopped at other farms, and its occupants dismounted and chatted in friendly fashion to such of the peasants as were not at work in the fields or vineyards.But Armand de Valtour did not appear to feel any further interest in his people, and went through the ceremony more as a disagreeable duty than anything else. Adrienne, on the other hand, was delighted with the cordial welcome she received. The pleasant, homely ways, the sight of the rosy children tumbling in the doorways and about the grass-grown paths, the old gran'mères nodding their silver white heads in the sunshine, cheerful and thankful to the saints that life held still for them so much that was good and pleasant, the peasant maidens with their white caps and brown faces, and bright eyes and shy pretty ways. These people pleased her greatly, and her gracious words and winning smiles captivated them easily enough. Not one among them all but was full of praise and admiration for the lovely young countess, and eagerly expressed hopes that her home from henceforth would be amongst them all."Our lord will surely not care for travel and foreign countries now that he has that bright angel to glorify the old château," they said one to another.And meanwhile the lord was laughing at the "bright angel" for the trouble she had taken to inquire into the peasants' wants and desires, and declaring he was only too willing to give up all his own duties to her if she would undertake them. Adrienne was too entirely in earnest to believe his light words. She saw so much that needed reforming--so much that had been borne with patience and uncomplaining, and her heart was troubled to think that with all the wealth and means at hand the poor should suffer and endure hardships that a little scarcely-felt sacrifice would remedy.They had not complained--indeed, they had spoken lightly and contentedly enough of their lives of burden; but, all the same, the young countess's quick instinct had perceived grievances and abuses and bitter wrongs lying beneath that lightness and content, and in her own mind she resolved that such things should exist no longer. But she did not press the matter too roughly upon Armand de Valtour's notice. She resolved to think out a plan of her own first, and then submit it to him, thus taking some of the burden upon her own shoulders.The poor would always be poor--of course, she knew that; but something, surely, might be done to make that poverty less bitter, those toilful lives less hard."How much we take from their hands: how little we give," she thought, remembering how the wealth of vineyards and orchards, and fields and olive groves went up to swell her husband's treasury, and what scant recompense was given to those whose care and toil were necessary in order to insure that wealth.To all thoughtful minds--minds that are free from class prejudice, and are capable of clear judgment--the laws which disproportion the advantages and enjoyments of the human race must seem arbitrary and unjust. All the sufferings and privations, the toil and care, which are imposed upon the poor for the benefit of the rich, assume proportions that are at once immoderate and unfair. Can one wonder that the seeds so carelessly and heedlessly sown become in time a crop of anarchy and revolution? There are so many people who ask but little and are given nothing, who see abuses and injustice heaped upon their heads until the burden must either suffocate them or be thrown off into a sea of blood! And then the world wonders and cries out on the discontent that hunger and want and grinding misery have sharpened into weapons of destruction, or turned into a fever of indignation, whose watchword is Revolution!As a rule, the peasantry are very contented and very patient.The homely plodding life that goes on day by day is of itself innocent and peaceful, and affords little room for base passions or bloodthirsty thoughts.

The quiet years spent among grazing cattle and green fields and simple pasture lands, the threshing and ploughing and sowing and reaping, the cares of seed-time and harvest, the watching of wind and weather--all these are enough to occupy their thoughts and fill their lives. But with the poor in the world of a great city it is different. Poverty there is a hideous and a terrible thing, and breeds those vile sins and viler deeds that overthrow kingdoms and alter dynasties, and spread the evil of teaching and example even to the pure and simple lives of the country around. Then, where perhaps has only been discontent, comes fierce resentment. And no longer is there peace in the homestead, or innocent content of meadows and fields and mountain sides, and the cottage by stream or river. No longer are the dim woods filled with music of birds. The cool skies stretching over purple moors cease to attract the toiler's eyes, and all the freedom and loveliness of the world as God has made it becomes of no beauty. A fever of unrest and rebellion usurps their place. Something of all this Adrienne knew, and her own strict sense of justice recognised much that was wrong, and betrayed carelessness and indifference on his part among even the few of her husband's people whom she had seen to-day. It made her thoughtful, and troubled her, too, so that the drive home was silent and somewhat grave."What are you thinking of so earnestly?" asked Armand de Valtour at last."Of the people," she said."So was I," he answered, and Adrienne looked pleased and eager as she heard the confession. But he did not tell her of what particular people he was thinking, nor what his thoughts respecting them were.Had he done so she would hardly have felt so gratified, for the one idea in his mind was to send young André Brizeaux to Paris at any cost, and to separate him from little Maï."She would not be a fit wife for him," he said to himself, and again that odd little cruel smile was on his lips.CHAPTER VII.THE weeks drifted slowly and peacefully by. To Adrienne they had been full of happiness, and interest, and joy. Yet there were times when her husband puzzled and grieved her--times when a word, a look, a careless expression, seemed dimly to shadow forth the real nature of the man whom she had idealised into a hero, and worshipped as a lover.Already he seemed restless and impatient--already he complained of the monotony of life at Valtours, and sighed for Paris. His wife's schemes and plans for the welfare of the peasantry, for improving their dwellings, and adding to the comforts of their toilful lives, met with good-natured contempt, but certainly won no aid from him."I am beyond the age of enthusiasms," he would say, and laugh, and bid her do what she pleased, so only she did not trouble him.Adrienne did not blame him yet; that was a disloyalty of which she would have been incapable. Only a little chill sense of disappointment began to creep into her heart, and depress the ardour of her youth, the unselfishness of her desires.All the people adored her without doubt. Even Céline de Valtour acknowledged that her brother's wife was as nearly perfection as any woman could be, and sighed as she looked at the fair face and listened to the girlish enthusiasm, the generous impulses that moved her soul, and seemed to lift her above the petty, sordid, worldly interests of merely social life--life as it had now become to her husband, to his friends, to the circle in which they moved, and where she was soon to take her place.Adrienne had tasted very little of the world's pleasures in the shape of gaiety and fashionable dissipation; neither would such pleasures be of any value in her eyes. She loved the simple, innocent life she now lived far better. The glare, the unrest, the irksomeness, of what the world miscalls enjoyment, were to her so utterly unattractive, that she never gave them a thought, and she listened to her husband's description of what her own share and portion of them would be with a sense of weariness and distaste that he could not comprehend."I should like to live here always!" she sighed, when he spoke of Paris, and painted its countless delights."You told me once you would be glad to see it," he said. "Do you remember that day at Trouville, when we spoke of it, and how you thought you would never be there? If I mistake not, no queen of all its beauties, no leader of its most exclusive circles, will win so great a triumph as--my wife."She looked at him anxiously."Will that please you?" she asked."Certainly," he said, laughing. "I should like the world to approve my taste."The answer displeased her, but she kept silence. Already she was beginning to feel that to argue with him on some matters only roused him to a petulant irritation that lasted long and was difficult to soothe. She deemed submission and obedience a wife's first duties, and it troubled her to think she had annoyed or disturbed him. He was so much older than herself in years and experience that she was always reluctant to set up her own judgment in opposition to his, and even if she felt he was in the wrong, she would not say so; she would be silent, even if unconvinced."I hope she will not give me any trouble," Armand de Valtour thought sometimes. "Women of character are always hard to manage; and yet I could never have married a nonentity!"Then he would light his cigar, and wander off into the grounds, leaving her alone with Cèline, or else turn his steps to old Manon's cottage, where little Maï would be working in the garden among her flowers or cabbages--a pretty, quaint little figure, with the white cap tossed back from her dark hair, and the sun kissing the ruddy bloom of cheeks and lips into yet richer brightness. He would lean over the gate and talk to her, while the scents of the sweet dusky garden blew to and fro, and the wind

stirred the leaves of the vines and the full-blown petals of the roses; but somehow all those talks left but one idea in the girl's young heart--that she was sacrificing André's future to her own selfishness, that it was her duty to persuade his father to let him go to Paris, and there win the fame and glory he desired.Was she selfish--was she ungrateful? She asked herself these questions, and grew perplexed, and her little tender heart was troubled often and often, for the old Brizeaux was obstinate and obdurate as iron, and swore that never with his will should his son leave the fields and vineyards of his home to tread the dusty ways and sinful streets of that great, vile, beautiful city for which he longed.It was market-day--the great day of the week in Valtours, and the little sleepy town was all astir with noise and excitement.Long before sunrise the country roads leading into the town had been alive with the stir and bustle of human and animal life. The grinding of the carts on the stones, the cackling of the fowls in their baskets, the lowing of cattle, the hoarse cries of the drovers, the barking of dogs, the shadowy figures on horseback--all made up a picture of life and colour, bright and animated as the young day itself. Even before the break of dawn the moving crowd disappeared under the gateways of the ramparts, and then slowly spread themselves into the open space that encircled

the little town. Between the silvery trunks of the great plane trees the swarm of men and cattle were noiselessly and regularly arranged, so that when the sun rose to its full glory, and the sleeping town awoke, the people found an enormous market before them, populated apparently by all the peasantry of Provence, and marvellous with country riches of grain and food and cattle. Piled up in flat baskets lay golden heaps of oranges and quinces and pomegranates, green and yellow melons, and cool sorbs; peaches rested their tender bloom against the dark purple of figs and grapes; orchard spoils lay in rich luxuriance side by side with their homelier rivals of the vegetable kingdom. Sheep were bleating; little kids looked out with restless eyes from behind the wooden palings of their pens; bullocks yoked together stood patiently awaiting purchasers; bulls with smoking nostrils and fierce eyes tugged impatiently at the iron rings which fastened them to the wall. Further on, horses of all sizes and colours frisked restlessly about, or munched oats out of their owners' hands.A little apart, the silver scales of fish were shining from the green beds of wood-fennel; poultry, tied up in couples by their red feet, lay beating their helpless wings on the ground; piles of snowy eggs peeped out from baskets, and at the end of all, like the produce of a dry wintry forest, were wooden shovels and rakes and pitchforks standing up between ploughs and harrows.Valtours was proud of its market, and rejoiced in its market-day. Between the double line of carts, with their tilts and high rails, and the stalls where all these bounties of Nature lay piled together, the crowd of people--buyers, sellers, and lookers-on--would move about the whole day long.The noise was at times deafening. The town's people, as a rule, kept apart, for this country invasion was not much to their taste, though it was too characteristic and too profitable to be despised. The streets were thronged with peasants in various garbs, all laughing, chattering, staring, and bargaining in high good-humour. Life for them was an easy, joyous thing to-day; they were mirthful and content enough with the sale of their hard labours and the profits accorded. In their vineyards and cornfields all other days, this one day seemed a thing glorious and beautiful by force of contrast. The streets and shops of Valtours were all they knew of the great world lying beyond their own immediate district, and all they cared to know. For people who could neither read nor write, who went to bed with their poultry, and rose with the sun, whose lives were toilful, simple, and content, nothing could be grander or more beautiful.The old Brizeaux was always glad when market-day arrived; he had never missed one, he was wont to say, in all his threescore years. It was but seldom he could persuade André to come, and that troubled him greatly. To the young man the noise and bustle

and chaffering were detestable, and to see the little picturesque town turned into a mass of colour and movement jarred upon his feelings. Therefore the night previous when he had answered his father's request to accompany him thither by a cold refusal, the old man had not been surprised. He had scolded and grumbled a little, as was his way, but that was all; and daybreak had seen him trudging off on foot to Valtours beside his own cart of fruit and flowers and vegetables.The day had passed much as usual. Toward noon the chief business was over. A drowsy silence filled the air, and under the great branches of the plane trees the market people gossiped and compared notes on their successes, while others wandered off to see the shops and make purchases for friends or lovers. In one corner of the market-place was a stall filled to overflowing with rich autumn fruits and harvest spoils. It was kept by a woman of Provence, an old acquaintance of Brizeaux's. Having finished his own business, the old man strolled over to his friend, and seated himself at her stall for a gossip.The day was hot, and the good woman produced a bottle of wine, and made an impromptu table of an empty cask turned bottom upward, and made old Brizeaux sit down and share the liquor with her. The old man was nothing loth to accept her invitation. She cut him some slices of melon, and stood there beside him, eating and drinking, and chattering of all the hundred and one things they had in

common, or had had by the association and remembrance of a score of years.The old man talked much of his son, of the genius that was a curse rather than a blessing, since it unfitted him for his own sphere of life, and could not procure him any other; and the woman listened and nodded her head, and from time to time attended to her customers, or scolded the rosy, fat children who were examining her treasures, and tumbling over her sacks of grain and potatoes.The old man murmured placidly on, soothed by the wine, the drowsy stillness of the air, the restfulness and peace of his comfortable nook in the shady sweet-smelling market stall. His head began to nod. His ears caught the faint buzz of buyers less distinctly, and his eyes at last closed placidly in slumber. How long he slept he never knew, nor what aroused him could he ever remember in any after-time. Only somehow, some one seemed to be speaking his name and André's.By an effort he shook off the lethargy of sleep, and roused himself, and sat up. Before him stood little Maï. Her face was pale, her eyes wild and excited.The woman had paused in the act of taking some seeds out of a jar, and was regarding the girl with an expression of incredulity and fear on her stout, good-humoured visage."What is it? What has happened?" cried the old man, sitting up, and looking sternly at Maï.A flush rose to her face, a mist of tears seemed to

dim her sight; she strove to speak, but the words were hard to form, and harder to utter."Tell me, girl!" cried the old man, fiercely. "Surely I overheard something about my son. What is it? Is he here with you?""No," said the girl, and lifted her head proudly, and looked at him with defiant eyes; "he is not here. Of you, of me, he takes no heed now. He left this morning for Paris!""For Paris!"There was a strange and long silence. The old man trembled in every limb. The market-place and all its familiar and accustomed sights seemed to sway to and fro before his eyes."My son! No, it cannot be!" he cried suddenly. "He would not disobey me thus! He would not forsake me in my old age!""He bade me give you this," said Maï, handing him a letter. "You would understand then, he said.""Understand!" muttered the old man, putting his hand to his head in a dazed, bewildered fashion. "I--I cannot read it, Maï. Tell me what he says."The girl took the paper from his shaking fingers, and slowly, and with difficulty, read out these lines:--"FATHER,--I have prayed of you so often to let me go to Paris. You have said 'no' always. The desire is but strengthened every day I live. Don't think me thankless or undutiful because I cannot conquer it

any longer. You have been good to me. I know it; but the life here is not what I want. I cannot suffer it. I am different from you all; it is not my fault that I cannot find content in the daily labour that satisfies you all here. As we are made so we are, and my love for music is stronger than any love or passion of my life. I go to win a name of which you may be proud one day. Forgive me that, in doing this, I for the first time in my life disobey you. I love the land, the home--I love you, father; but, oh! there is something more within me, and I cannot rest or be at peace here any longer. So I go. I shall only return when I am great; but of you all I shall always think, and for you I shall always pray.--Your son"ANDRÉ"With stammering and hesitation, for she read but ill, little Maï spelt out the contents of the letter. As she finished there was a long silence.The old man's heart felt bitter within him. The child he had loved and tended through infancy and youth--for whom he had laboured, and worked, and denied himself--that child had forsaken him now, and left him desolate and alone in his old age.It embittered his soul; it well-nigh broke his heart. The genius that he could not comprehend--the love for an art that to him was but of small account, seemed as only a baseless, thankless passion; selfish in its isolation, foolish in its incomprehensibility, vile as a crime in the ingratitude that had thrown off love

and duty, treating them as a burden intolerable and not to be borne.For a moment rage mastered him. He rose from his seat shaking in every limb. He snatched the paper from the girl's little brown hands, and threw it on the ground, and stamped on it, while a bitter curse hissed between his teeth--a curse that made the women tremble as they heard."Oh, hush!" cried Maï, weeping. "Remember, he is still your son!""He is no son of mine!" he cried fiercely. "He is only a beggar--a selfish ingrate. From this day let no one mention his name in my hearing."And with no further word he left the market-place and went back to his own home.CHAPTER VIII.THE news of André Brizeaux's flight spread rapidly enough. It reached the château, and startled Mdlle. de Valtour and Adrienne, and brought a cynical smile to the lips of Armand de Valtour."He is a young fool!" he said. "But he has done the best thing he could. His life was wasted here.""But you will befriend him, Armand?" urged his wife. "You have interest--wealth. You will aid him, will you not? But for us he might have been content here still.""I doubt that," said the Count. "The fever of discontent was upon him long ere he saw us. I am not sure, ma chère, that your flowers did not aggravate it into delirium. However, I will do what I can for him. In Paris he will soon find his own level.""And poor little Maï," murmured Cèline de Valtour. "What a grief for her! She loved him so dearly. I must go and see her.""I am going up to Brizeaux's farm myself," answered her brother carelessly. "I will take any message from you that you wish to send; or, perhaps, you would like the child to come here?""I should, indeed," answered his sister. "Tell her to come this evening.""May I not accompany you, Armand?" asked Adrienne timidly. "I should like the walk so much."A slight frown darkened Armand de Valtour's brow. He answered her impatiently--"No, chérie. The walk is long; it is too far in this heat; you will be fatigued."Adrienne said no more. She was already learning that her husband hated contradiction, that his will must not be gainsaid. It did not even occur to her to think that if ever he went to Brizeaux's now, he always went alone; always found some excuse to keep her at home with his sister.Her mind and nature were too lofty for suspicion, and where she loved she could not doubt. She would have liked to go to the farm, and cheer the lonely old man, and beg him not to think too hardly of his son; but she consoled herself with the reflection that Armand would perhaps do it better--that probably he had some generous scheme on hand, of which he wished no one to know; so she and Céline de Valtour took their work and wandered out into the shady old garden of the château, and spent the long drowsy afternoon there together, as they often did now. Mdlle. de Valtour was growing to love her young sister-in-law very dearly; all the more dearly, perhaps, in that she read the truth, and purity, and fearlessness of her nature so well, and dreaded with a strange unaccountable dread that future which stretched before her."He is not half worthy of her--not half!" she thought again and again. "But yet, how she loves him!"And she was right. Unsuited as were their natures--dissimilar as were their feelings on most points, Adrienne loved her husband even more passionately and devotedly than she had loved him as her lover. Perhaps, after all, forcible contrasts are a bond stronger than any similarity or sympathy. It would almost seem so, seeing how women love.While Adrienne sat there under the shade of the boughs, her fingers busy at her work, and her lips smiling at her own happy thoughts, her husband was riding swiftly along in the direction of the farm, a light of triumph in his eyes, and a sense of exultation in his heart.Presently he drew rein and stopped.In the garden by which he passed was a little laborious figure, with her petticoats twisted high, and her back bent, in the labour of hoeing the potato beds among which she worked. Armand de Valtour looked over the hedge with ease, and, holding in his horse, he called out to the girl. She started, and came forward at once, the hoe still in her hand, her cheeks flushed with exercise, fragments of the damp cool earth she had been digging still about her feet."How busy you are. Come here; I want to speak to you," said Armand de Valtour.She approached, and curtsied silently."You don't look well, Are you fretting?" asked

the Count, gazing with his bold handsome eyes into the little flower-like face, troubled and perplexed, and with traces of tears about the downcast lids.She coloured hotly."You have heard, then?" she said."Of course I have heard," he said mockingly. "André has run away--taken the reins into his own hands for once. It is the best thing he could have done.""He has broken his father's heart," said the girl sadly. "Is that best?""Oh, stuff!" laughed the Count carelessly. "Hearts don't break so easily, child. What about yours? Is it broken, too?"The girl looked at him, a little bewildered; that idle, cynical tone always puzzled and displeased her."I am sorry," she said, and there were no tears now in the downcast eyes. "But he will come back; he will not forget!""Do you think so?" smiled Armand de Valtour. "I hope your faith will be rewarded, my dear. You don't know Paris, and you don't know much of men, so it is easy to believe your idyllic lover will return as he left. For my own part, I doubt it."Maï was silent.She stirred the ground at her feet with the hoe in her restless brown hands; her heart was aching--a sense of sorrow and injustice was heavy upon her young trustful heart. She wished the Count would go away. Why did he come so often now, and why,

when he talked, did that uneasiness and distrust always rise in her mind, and that perplexity and discontent weigh down her spirit? She could not answer these questions, so she stood there without speaking, while those bold dark eyes were resting mockingly on her face, where the colour came and went every moment beneath the clear brown skin."How pretty she is!" thought Armand de Valtour; "how very pretty! In Paris, now--"He did not finish the thought, for suddenly she looked up and met his eyes, and something in the frankness and purity of that gaze shamed and rebuked him all in one."I am busy, monsieur," she said, quietly. "I have these beds to dig for Gran'mère. Do you want me any longer?""I have a message for you from Mdlle. de Valtour. She wants you to come to the château to-night," he answered, a little confused by the clear gaze, the calm question."I will come," she answered, and half turned away.He stretched out a detaining hand."Stay," said he. "I wanted to ask you about yourself,--about Gran'mère. Is there anything you want--anything I can do for you?""You are very kind, monsieur," said the girl gratefully. "But we have all we want--we are content.""Content!" exclaimed Armand de Valtour in-

voluntarily. He looked at her coarse dress, her bare feet, her humble home. Could such things satisfy anyone, and least of all a woman, young, and with a rich, ripe beauty like a flower that the sun has kissed into bloom and fragrance? Content! He almost laughed."Would you not like to be rich--to have fine clothes--to live in a beautiful house?" he asked involuntarily.The girl turned, and her clear eyes looked up to him with frank contempt."Such things are not for me!" she said. "I was not born to them."Once again the smile she hated curled his lips."They are for all women who choose them," he said, and then was silent, and watched her as the words fell on her ears and sank into her heart, to move her to wonder or envy or discontent--according to her nature.But they did none of these. The trouble in her face deepened--the curve of the young lips grew a shade more sorrowful; but the temptation never moved her by a hair's-breadth."Why do you say such things to me?" she said calmly. "I do not understand quite--but I am happy enough. Leave me here; the future you paint is for women different to myself. I want nothing.""Nothing! Not even André's love and respect;

not even the knowledge that no other can outrival you in his eyes."Her lips trembled. "He loved me for what I was," she said. "If his love be worth the name, it will see no change in me when he comes back again. For would he wish me other than I am?"Armand de Valtour laughed. "Nonsense!" he said. "In the great world whither he has gone he will see women beautiful, talented, rich. When he comes back here--if, indeed, he ever does--do you think he will not contrast you with them? And to whose advantage? Certainly not yours. If you were wise you would rise as he rises--keep up to his own level, for he may be great and famous one day. Then, when that day comes, you will feel no shame to be chosen by him from out the world of women who will seek his love."The girl's face grew very pale. "What you say is impossible," she said. "I am but as I am; I cannot change. I desire no more. I want no other life. If André is ashamed of me hereafter--if his love fail, I cannot help it. Do not speak of these things to me again. They trouble me and can do no good."Armand de Valtour felt rebuked--ashamed. This was no Gretchen to be lightly tempted--no woman to be soon beguiled. He argued no more--it would have been no use."I suppose you know best," he said coldly; "only if in time to come you lose your lover, the fault will

be your own. Do not expect him to return here as he left."He gave his horse the rein and rode slowly off, while she went back to her labours again. But her heart felt heavy, and her eyes were aching with the scorching of the hot, slow tears that gathered beneath their lids."He will be true; I am sure he will be true," she thought, going to and fro among the upturned earth. "And if he loves me at all it is for what I am. Why should I seek to change?"But all the same the words she had heard troubled her greatly, and her heart ached, and no song left her lips or lightened her labours as she worked on till the sunset hour was long past, and Gran'mère's voice called to her from the cottage door in tender rebuke for her prolonged industry.CHAPTER IX.THAT evening, as dinner was concluded, Adrienne turned to her husband."And how was old Brizeaux?" she asked eagerly. "Does he feel his son's absence very much?"Armand de Valtour hesitated a moment. He had never been to the tower--never remembered his promise to call on the old man."I did not see him," he said at last. "He was out somewhere in the fields.""Did you see little Maï--did you give her my message?" asked his sister."Yes, she will be here this evening.""Poor old Brizeaux, I wish you had seen him. He is in sad trouble, I hear," said Adrienne regretfully. "May I go to-morrow morning, Armand?""Certainly, if you wish," he answered indifferently. "But I suppose he is all right now. He was vexed at first, naturally. But then he should not have been so obstinate. André will do better in Paris than ever he could have done here.""I hope so," said Adrienne, with a sigh, "But here, at least, he was safe, and happy, and beloved.""That might content a woman," said her husband,

rising from the table as he spoke. "A man needs something more."A short time after, when the two women were in
the salon, Céline de Valtour noticed how wistfully her young sister's eyes turned to the terrace, where in the moonlight a solitary figure passed to and fro; the red light of his cigar shone star-like through the dusk."Why do you not go to him, Adrienne?" she asked, pausing in the mysteries of Chopin, and letting her fingers stray mechanically over the keys, while she watched the beautiful grave face.The girl started, and shook her head."He does not ask me to come now," she said, sadly."But, my dear, a wife must not always wait to be asked. She has a right to be with her husband when she pleases. Armand does not specially invite your company; all the same, I am sure, he would be glad enough of it. Come, these are early days for coldness. You are lovers still. Go to him and join him in his walk, and I will play to you here, as I did the first evening after your return."Adrienne only sighed."He always used to ask me then," she said. "A month--only one little month ago. Ah, Céline, where do I fail? He does not love me now as he did then.""Do not fancy that, my dear," said the old lady kindly. "I am sure he loves you very dearly. But

you don't know much of men; you must make allowances for them always. Their love is so different to ours. And my brother is much older that you; he has lived so different a life; his thought and feelings and associations naturally fall into their old groove.""I thought to be a companion to him as well as wife," said Adrienne slowly. "I begin to see my mistake. I suppose in time I shall grow content. I shall learn the lesson all women have to learn--the difference between a lover and husband!"She spoke bitterly, moved by a sudden pain--almost a fear--in her own proud, loving heart. If, indeed, she had to learn that lesson, the learning would be at once terrible and full of humiliation. Her dreams and hopes had all been of a life so widely different.Other women, other wives, have had such dreams and awakened to a reality as opposite.Adrienne had begun to feel this, but with the feeling she knew there was no escape. She had chosen her lot; she must abide by that choice for all her life now.So she said no more; only sat there by the window looking out at her husband's figure, while the strain of music rose and fell in the quiet, lamp-lit room."Perhaps I shall understand him better in time, she thought. "I love him so--I must not--cannot fail."She scarcely dared allow to herself that they were already drifting apart; that between his heart and hers was a shadow, faint, and yet perceptible to the keen, clear sight of love. It saddened her--she scarcely knew why; it was always about her now, and she had not been two months a wife.Would it fade and grow less, or deepen and darken until it stood between her and the love that she had deemed so perfect?Time alone would show--time, that slowly and surely ripens all things to their given end, and brings consolation even to despair.But Adrienne was young, and her heart still throbbed and thrilled with passionate love, and she was ready to throw herself at her husband's feet and pray for the tenderness that had once been hers. Her own beauty, her own gifts of intelligence, probity, honour, sweetness, and trust seemed as nothing in her sight--nothing to claim his wandering allegiance, or keep his love steadfast. Marriage had changed her in much; she felt years older than on that summer morning when she had stood on the sands at Trouville and watched the shining water at her feet, while beside her stood the man into whose keeping her life was to pass--the man who even then bore for her so singular an attraction."He loved me then," she thought. "Have I changed? Am I unlike what he imagined?"For she was still far from comprehending the restlessness and variability of character in the man she

had married, and by her own steadfastness she judged his.While these thoughts were still in her mind, he crossed the terrace and came up to the open window by which she sat."Adrienne," he said abruptly, "I am going to run up to Paris on business. I leave to-morrow!""But you will take me; you will not leave me here alone?" cried Adrienne, springing to her feet and clinging to his arm as she spoke.He laughed a little impatiently. "No," he said, "I only go for a week at most. You must remain here.""But, Armand--""Do not urge me," he answered coldly. "I must go alone."Her hands fell from his arm. She turned away and went indoors without another word.She was too proud to plead; she only knew she was not wanted; that her husband could leave her coldly and unregretfully, and she not two months his wife!CHAPTER X.SPEEDING on to Paris by express train, Armand de Valtour began to think over the events of the last two months."Am I tired of her already?" he said, and sighed discontentedly as he looked out on the changing landscape. "I loved her madly before I married her; why is it that a good woman becomes so wearisome? She does not understand me; she thinks me so different to what I am. I wonder how long love will blind her eyes?"Not being able to answer that question, he lit another cigar, and took out the last number of Figaro to read."I suppose Paris will be empty," he muttered discontentedly. "I wonder if Lamboi will be there. How he laughed at me for marrying; he said I should repent it in six months. Is he right? No; I do not regret marrying Adrienne, but I cannot keep up that exalted devotion she expects. Besides, it makes one look ridiculous! Ah! well, Paris will soon cure her of that."Such thoughts showed he was far enough from comprehending the lofty loyal nature of the girl he had

married; perhaps, though he had not acknowledged it, that very loftiness and purity shamed his own unstable and fickle heart, and was a continual reproach.Arrived in Paris, he went straight to his own hotel. He was not expected, but his servants were too well trained and too much accustomed to his caprices to be much put out by his arrival. His own rooms were in readiness always, and he bade them not trouble about refreshments, as he would dine out."Is Monsieur Lamboi in Paris?" he asked his confidential servant, who was waiting upon him noiselessly and expeditiously, during his toilet."Yes, monsieur; I saw him yesterday.""Bon," said Armand de Valtour, with content; "send him round this note at once; if he is out, leave word he is to call here to-morrow morning early."The man bowed and gave the note to an inferior messenger, and then proceeded with his master's toilet, retailing meanwhile such scraps of Parisian gossip as might interest or amuse him. Something he said startled and discomposed the Count suddenly, for a frown gathered on his brow."Madame Lissac called here? But that is strange! You are sure of it, Michel?""Quite sure, Monsieur le Comte. Madame was most anxious to know whether you were still in Provence, or if the date of your return was known.""A muttered curse left Armand de Valtour's lips.

The observant Michel noted the effects of his news, and observed a discreet silence. When his master's toilet was finished and he had handed him his hat and gloves, he said hesitatingly:"The servants would be glad to know if Madame la Comtesse arrives also--are her rooms to be prepared?""No; she is not coming," said Armand de Valtour quickly. "My stay is only for a few days. Then I return to Valtours again."The man turned and held the door open while his master passed out, and soon after left the hotel."Have they quarrelled already?" thought the discreet valet; "Ah! well, I always thought the Count was not meant for a good husband. I suppose he has tired of her, as he has of others; only the pity is this time he cannot cut asunder his chains."After the long railway journey Armand de Valtour was glad enough to stretch his legs, and now walked briskly along the lighted streets in the direction of the famous café. The evening was chill, and a slight rain was falling, but to Armand de Valtour, as he trod once more the streets of the city he loved best in the world, neither chill nor gloom mattered very much. Even the slight annoyance he had felt when he heard of Aurélie Lissac's visit left him now. He would soon quiet her, he thought. Other women had been troublesome, too, in their time, but he had always managed to disembarrass himself of their

importunities gracefully and effectually. Why should this case be an exception?"She thinks I behaved shabbily to her at Trouville, I suppose," he said. "Perhaps I did. I could think of no one but Adrienne then."Involuntarily his thoughts went back to that evening when he had seen his wife standing in the drawing-room of Mme. de Savigny's little chalet--a slender girlish figure in a soft white dress, and with the fan of feathers in her hand. "She is very beautiful--of that there is no doubt," he said to himself. "But she is too perfect. One would rather have flesh and blood than a statue. I like a woman who charms, and torments, and provokes one all at once--of whom one is never quite sure. Adrienne will always love me, and in her I shall never find a fault; but, all the same, she wearies me with her very perfection. I had better see Aurélie to-night, and discover what she wants. It is just as well to keep friends with her. Bon Dieu! How long I have known that woman now!"Once in the café, and with all the chef d'œuvres of culinary art before him, Armand de Valtour's good humour increased more and more. After all, there was no place like Paris, go where one would. He was about half through his dinner when Victor Lamboi came bustling in, noisy, stout, and talkative as ever. The two friends greeted each other warmly,
and Lamboi readily accepted Armand de Valtour's invitation to join him in his repast."Ma foi! But you look well, cher Armand,"

exclaimed his friend. "Of a truth, marriage agrees with you, and country life too. And how is madame? She is with you, of course?"No," said Armand de Valtour, a little confusedly; "I have merely run up to Paris on business. I return in a week. I do not wish my wife to come till the new year. Her dèbut must not be spoilt by a premature appearance.""Oh! Then you are alone?" cried Lamboi, an odd little smile curling his lips. "A week in Paris en garçon. Good. We shall enjoy ourselves--it will be like old times. Madame la Comtesse is well, I hope?""Quite well.""And you are happy, of course? No need to ask that. These are early days to be anything but le mari amoureux.""Yes, yes; I am happy enough," said the Count, with a little impatience. "And now, give me all the news of Paris, Lamboi. Who is here? Anyone we know?""Of the beau monde--no," said Victor Lamboi, smiling. "Of the other, it can be nothing to you now, or else I might tell you of the wonders of little Zoé Laurent, who blossomed out as a café chanteuse, and has taken half Paris by storm, and whose beauty has the singular attraction of being virtuous and uncorruptible. By the way, it is whispered that Madame Lissac knows something of her.""Aurélie, and a café chanteuse! Impossible! How could there be any connection between the two?"Lamboi shrugged his broad shoulders."That I cannot say. But why not? Madame Aurélie has not an immaculate reputation, despite the fact that she is received in many circles, and has not been known ostensibly to cross the line of demarcation which separates the two mondes. However, it matters not who or what Zoé is. She is charming. You can judge for yourself. She sings at a café chantant in the Champs Elysées every evening. Come and hear her by and by.""I am quite willing," said Armand de Valtour. "But, in truth, I wanted to call on Aurélie. She has been making inquiries at my hotel. I should like to know what she wants.""Oh, to-morrow will do for her!" said Lamboi. "Don't spoil your first evening by seeking out vexations. A woman always intends worrying one when she takes to calling at one's private residence. Leave her alone until to-morrow.""I am quite willing to do so," said Armand, who invariably shirked anything disagreeable. "I have no doubt our interview will not be pleasant. She has never forgiven my marriage.""No--nor your running over to England for the ceremony. She would like to have been present. Ah, cher Armand, why are you not like me? I never have troubled my head about women, nor do I

intend to. One's life is much easier and pleasanter without them."Armand de Valtour shook his head."I don't agree with you. Women are to life what salt is to food. Without it no dish is palatable; flavour is wanting. Without them life may be wholesome certainly, but not piquant.""The wholesome food, however, leaves no unpleasant results behind. You can't say so much of the dishes that hold the sauce piquante of a woman's flavouring.""Chut," said Armand, laughing. "We never agree on that subject, I know. A life that held no woman would be barren of all delights.""You should say, a life that held not one woman now, cher Armand," smiled Lamboi. "You thought, but two months ago, all the world of women were but as shadows in comparison to one. Has matrimony so disenchanted you already?""A truce to jesting, if you please, Victor," said the Count coldly. "Come, if you have finished, we will sally forth to see this new wonder; not that I suppose she will be much. These chanteuses are all alike, save that some excel others in point of vulgarity and extravagance."In his heart he was thinking, "How would such life suit Maï, I wonder; what would Paris say to her beauty?"But he did not confide the thought to his friend; indeed, he soon dismissed it from his own heart, for

he knew that Maï had nothing in her of the chic and effrontery which would have made her a
success in such a sphere of life.As they turned once more into the brilliantly-lighted streets which led to the boulevards, a hurrying figure passed close to them--the figure of a young man in a quaint peasant dress that looked strange and out of place among the crowds of well-dressed people moving to and fro. He stopped, uttered an exclamation, then followed Armand de Valtour and his friend impulsively."Monsieur le Comte! is it possible? Oh, pardon me--I thought, perhaps--""André!" exclaimed Armand de Valtour, "so--it is you!""Yes, monsieur.""Well, so you took the law into your own hands and ran away. And how has Paris received you? With open arms, I doubt not. Geniuses are rare, and when found are immediately recognised and placed on a pedestal for the world to worship."The young man coloured."Monsieur is pleased to jest," he said, drawing back a step.All the eagerness had faded from his face. He looked worn and haggard under the glare of the lamps."Jest! not I," exclaimed Armand de Valtour. "I merely wish to know if you found what you expected. Let me see, it is a week, is it not, since you left Valtours?""Ten days, monsieur.""Humph--not very long. And what are you doing?""Nothing at present. I went to a director of out-of-door concerts, and he said my voice was good, but he could not offer me an engagement just now. I know no one, you see, monsieur, and it is all strange here--so different.""You find it so?" said Armand, in the same ironical tone. "And the world has not given you audience yet. Well, you are not the first, nor will you be the last, who has found it deaf and obdurate; it is an old grievance, you know. The public won't have what we offer them--won't take our goods at our own valuation, or assist us to get them taken on that of others. And so you are discontented already?""I hardly know, monsieur; I have had no experience--no opportunity yet, I--""Well, well," interrupted Armand impatiently, "I have no time to hear your explanations now; but I am going to see a musical gentleman to-morrow who has some influence. I will speak to him of you, and see if he has any opening for rising talent. Meanwhile, what is your address? I will write and tell you what he says.""A thousand thanks, monsieur," cried the young man eagerly. "I am at the Rue Croix des Petits Champs, No. 13, at present. This is my address.""Very well," said Armand de Valtour, taking the

slip of paper from his hand and putting it in his own pocket. "I will do what I can. Bon soir.""Monsieur, a thousand pardons, but--Madame la Comtesse--is she well? Is she also in Paris?" cried the young man eagerly."That can be no concern of yours," said Armand de Valtour coldly, as he took Lamboi's arm, and moved on, leaving André Brizeaux standing motionless and stupefied on the pavement."A Provençal protegé?" asked Lamboi, as they went on again. "Ma foi! but he has an interest, indeed, in madame. A pastoral idyl, I suppose?""Don't be foolish," exclaimed Armand de Valtour sharply. "He is the son of one of my tenants; he has a craze for music, and ran away from home with some wild idea of winning fame and honour and the Lord knows what ere a year had passed over his head. I hope he may realise his dream--that is all.""It is so likely--here in Paris, unknown and friendless, too," answered Lamboi."He is a young fool; dreams stand in place of food to him," said Armand de Valtour. "His life was simple, safe, peaceful, but obscure; now--"He stopped abruptly. A pang of remorse shot through his heart. He remembered who had disturbed that simplicity, destroyed that peace, tempted that obscurity. Armand de Valtour had a way of sowing seed lightly and carelessly, and then marvelling whence came the harvest of pain, or ill deeds that followed."Well, now I must do what I can for him," he said grumblingly. "I suppose he will get on in time. He has a craze for music, and his voice is beautiful. If all else fails, he will do for a chorus-singer in the opera."It was well André Brizeaux did not hear those words. His dreams of fame would have fled further had he done so.There is a wayward fate which often shows itself in human life, giving all to those who already posses much--bestowing naught upon those who have nothing. The genius that filled the young Provençal's soul would hardly bring him food to keep life within his frame, the little chanteuse who had nothing but audacity and prettiness, and a certain reckless, saucy way of singing risky little chansons, was already winning popularity, and tempting offers from managers and directors, who saw in her that most subtle and magical of attractions, a draw. But then she was chic.It was just her turn to sing when the friends reached the café.Throngs of people were about. The lights shone amidst the trees, and overhead the sky stretched dark and starless. A girl stood on the little stage with hair that gleamed like gold tossed in a loose shower from her face, and eyes that looked dark as night under the shade of their long lashes. She had a saucy, bewildering face of exquisite colour and charming irregularities; a face that defied all laws of beauty,

and provoked and allured by its very contradictions. The song she sung was not of any particular merit--such songs are written by hundreds, and have their short run of popularity and then are forgotten; but she sang with an esprit and vivacity that made its allusions doubly piquant, and brought down thunders of applause from the delighted audience."What do you think of her?" asked Lamboi, turning to his friend, when the little figure had at last retired, after a succession of encores.Armand de Valtour had split his gloves with the energy of applauding, his face was flushed and excited, his lips were parted with smiles."Ravissante! magnifique!" he murmured. "Your description did not half do her justice, Victor.""Ah!" said Lamboi dryly. "What a pity Armand, that you are married!"CHAPTER XI.A VEILED woman stole out from among the crowd and laid her hand on Armand de Valtour's arm."I must speak to you," she said in his ear.He started. She was already moving away, but he knew her voice, and knew, too, that it would be better for him to obey her behests. He uttered a hurried excuse to Lamboi and left the group, and went away through the motley, noisy, changeful crowd, in pursuit of that shadowy form which still flitted before him.Apart from the crowd, in a little alley dimly lit, and shut in by great boughs heavy with autumn foliage, she stopped at last. There Armand de Valtour came up to her side, and muttered impatiently:"What in Heaven's name brings you to such a place as this?"She threw back her long veil and looked up at him with mocking eyes."You are shocked, I suppose. No matter. So you are in Paris, too. Your people told me you were still at Valtours.""The surprise is mutual. I was at Valtours. I only arrived this evening. I heard you had been

inquiring for me. I was about to call on you to-morrow.""Quel honneur!" she said mockingly. "And madame--she is with you, of course?""No.""Est-ce-possible? Parted so soon! Have you, then, left her in Provence?""Yes; I only stay in Paris a week myself.""A short visit. But of course there are no attractions here now?""Aurélie!" cried Armand de Valtour impatiently, "I suppose you have hardly summoned me in this mysterious fashion to discuss my movements or how they may be affected by circumstances. What is it you wish to say to me?""How do you like Zoé Laurent?" was the abrupt reply.Armand started visibly."I--I do not comprehend," he stammered, in confusion. "What has that to do with us?""A great deal," answered his companion. "I take an interest in the girl. She is good, despite appearances--talented, quick, witty. She deserves a better fate than that of a café chanteuse. I want your help, your influence. You can assist her. Will you?""I--why should I? I know nothing of the girl. I only saw her a few moments ago.""That has nothing to do with the point at issue. For the sake of the past, Armand, I claim your cooperation now. You have not treated me well--let

that go by. Faithfulness in an man is a virtue unknown. But I have no wish reproach. I only need your help--your promise. Will you serve Zoé for my sake?""For your sake, Aurélie, certainly. But what can I do?""You must introduce her to the directors of concerts or theatres. You must make them engage her. Do you hear?""But that is not possible.""Oh, yes, it is. You have money, rank, influence. Your word is of weight in Paris. If you choose, you can do more difficult things than this. Do not raise objections, Armand. If you value your wife's peace and your own, you had best make a friend of me, not an enemy.""My charming Aurélie, I could not refuse you anything, you know. Of course I will do what I can.""Very well--and at once, mind! No delay, no procrastination. Let something be arranged for the winter season before you go back to Valtours.""I will do my best. I wish I knew the secret of your interest in this little adventuress, though. It seems odd.""I will tell you one day. Meanwhile, I shall bring her round to you to-morrow; you had better hear her sing. You cannot judge of her voice in this performance here. As your wife is not at your hotel our visit will not scandalise anybody. Now, adieu. I will not detain you longer.""Nay, stay a moment.""My friend, when one has said enough, why spoil it by endless repetition? Till to-morrow, farewell."She dropped her veil and glided away without another word, leaving Armand de Valtour to retrace his steps and rejoin his friend in a frame of mind the reverse of comfortable."Well, who was it?" asked Victor Lamboi, as with clouded brow and disturbed look his friend came up to him."Who the devil should it be but Aurélie?""Mon Dieu! she here, in such a place, at such a time? Her actions get more strange every day. What did she want? No mischief, I hope.""I cannot understand the woman," muttered Armand de Valtour. "She wants me to do something for this girl, this Zoé Laurent; use my interest, get her an appointment at a theatre, or somewhere. Why should she patronise a café singer in the name of wonder?""I cannot tell," said Lamboi thoughtfully. "Was she amiable? Did she allude to your marriage?""Yes; she seems to accept it rationally enough, only she used some threat about my wife if I refused to exert myself on behalf of Zoé.""Well, you had better do so. A word from you will go a long way. And it will be something to win the gratitude of this jolie capricieuse. How the men will envy you!""Nonsense," exclaimed Armand de Valtour im-

patiently. "Such things are over and done with for me; Come, let us go, Lamboi. I am sick of this place.""Will you not hear the little Laurent sing again?""D--n the little Laurent, and Aurélie, and all the women with whom I have ever had anything to do!""Ah," murmured Lamboi, shaking his head sorrowfully. "You would marry, mon pauvre Armand!"One of the most splendid rooms in the Hôtel de Valtours was the salon de musique. Armand de Valtour loved art for its own sake, and in previous years, before he was quite so indolent or quite so stout, had devoted much of his time to it. His voice had been well trained and cultivated, and occasionally even now he would astonish and delight the guests at some of his receptions by singing some operatic air or melody of the day with a power, expression, and finish that amateurs rarely possess. In this salon, with its polished floor, magnificent mirrors and decorations, its stands for music, and instruments of all kinds, he was awaiting the visit of Mme. Lissac and Zoé Laurent.He was by no means comfortable or at ease. He could not understand madame's motive in thus claiming his interest for a girl of whom he knew nothing, and whose antecedents could be by no means creditable. The more he thought of it, the more annoyed he felt, and yet he dared not refuse
 
Aurélie what she demanded. He had no love for her--nay, rather he disliked her; but she had a hold on his past and a knowledge of it that made his vices a whip of scorpions in her hands, and this whip he knew would be unsparingly applied should he offend her now."It would never do for Adrienne to know--never," he muttered to himself, knowing well how highly his young wife had exalted him--how far she was from realising the real nature of the man she had married.In the midst of his troubled thoughts his servant announced Mme. Lissac and Mdlle. Laurent. Armand de Valtour received them courteously, and when Mme. Lissac suggested that the girl should sing to him, he at once agreed. Seen by the morning light and in her pretty, simple costume, Zoé looked far lovelier than she had done on the previous evening. Her transparent skin showed every flush and change of colour: the tiny features, the exquisite little figure, the tangled red-gold hair above her brow--all were in their way perfect and ensnaring. Only too soon Armand de Valtour felt this. Beside this lovely fairy Maï would have seemed coarse, and brown, and almost ugly, and when the shy, soft eyes looked appealingly at him at the conclusion of the "Jewel Song" from Faust, he was in an ecstasy of enthusiasm."You are right, madame; she does, indeed deserve a better career," he cried eagerly. "Rest assured

that all I can do to assist mademoiselle shall be done without loss of time.""I thought you would assist us," said Madame Lissac dryly; "and I know your influence is great enough to make a promise of yours valuable. I take an interest in Mdlle. Laurent. Her mother did me a service once. We have not seen each other for years, and it was quite an accident that I discovered Zoé. The poor child is an orphan now, and her voice is all her fortune. It behoves her to make the best use of it, does it not, monsieur?""Mademoiselle need but be heard to assure herself of success," said Armand heartily. "Such a voice is rare indeed.""And she may soon bid farewell to cafés chantants. Eh, monsieur?""If you do not overrate my influence, madame. Perhaps an engagement in opéra bouffe would please Mdlle. Laurent better?""It is what I long for," cried Zoé delightedly. "Comic opera! Ah, c'est mon metier, monsieur. I long to be on the stage. I am too petite, too volage for tragedy; but I love Offenbach and Lecocq, and I am sure I could act in their operas. Ah, monsieur," and she clasped her hands and looked imploringly in his face, "if indeed you can procure me such an engagement, my gratitude will be eternal."Armand de Valtour could scarcely repress a smile. He knew what women's gratitude was--women, that

is to say, of the stamp of Zoé Laurent, and he valued her extravagant protestations at their worth."Do you know this?" he asked, showing her the score of a new opera of Offenbach's that all Paris had raved of that season."Mais, oui, monsieur," cried the little chanteuse, taking it from his hand, and she began to sing one of the airs.So well did she enter into the spirit of the composition that Armand de Valtour grew quite enthusiastic. Following it was a duet for soprano and baritone. He suddenly took up the opening notes as Madame Lissac played the accompaniment. Zoé, with a smile, followed by giving out the soprano part, and handed him the music at the same moment.He stood by her side, and, utterly forgetful of time and place, threw himself into his part as enthusiastically as herself.Madame Lissac played on. The little chanteuse leaned coquettishly against him. The faint perfume of her dress stole to him ever and anon as she swayed to and fro with the exertion of singing. The golden tresses, the sweet eyes, the balmy breath, the passionate music--all these acted like a spell on his susceptible nature. Heart and soul he threw himself into his part, and the two rich, well-trained voices rose and fell it perfect accord.As the last notes died away, a footman made his appearance in the doorway."Pardon, Monsieur le Comte, but a lady is in the salon, and desired me to say she would be glad if you could spare her a few moments.""A lady! what lady?" demanded Armand de Valtour impatiently.The man handed him a card. He glanced at the name."Diable!" he muttered. "Whatever brings her here now?""Do not let us detain you, Count," said Madame Lissac suavely. "We owe you many thanks, as it is, for giving us so much of your valuable time.""Oh, pray don't go!" entreated Armand; but his heart was not in the entreaty, and Madame Lissac saw that very quickly."I fear we must," she said, rising from her seat at the piano. "When may Mdlle. Laurent expect to hear from you?""In a week's time at furthest," he answered eagerly. "Depend upon it, I shall use my best endeavours.""And you are sure you will not forget?" said mademoiselle herself, throwing him one of her most coquettish glances."Can you believe that possible?" he asked. "Once to see mademoiselle is to remember her only too well.""My plan works admirably," thought Aurélie Lissac, as she went homeward that morning, having left Zoé Laurent at a shop in the Palais Royal.

"That man is as inconstant as a weathercock. Well, I swore I would have my revenge, and I do not think I shall have to wait very long for it."Aurélie Lissac was a woman of some thirty-eight years, who had once been handsome and who still believed herself so. She had married very young, and had been three years a widow. In a certain circle of Parisian society she was very popular. Young men liked her; old ones were flattered by her tact and unfailing good-humour. Women put up with her because she was so good-natured a friend, so malicious an enemy. Her house was perfectly appointed. She was always exquisitely dressed; was generous, though not lavish; witty, though not clever. She had never been guilty of a weakness in her life until she fell in love with Armand de Valtour. That passion still lived in her breast, though in his it had been nothing but a name. When her husband died, and she found herself free, rich, and still fairly young, she had made up her mind that Armand would marry her. As soon as her first year of widowhood had expired, she had made her re-entrance into society; but Armand had been proof against all her tricks and wiles.Still, as long as he did not marry anyone else or seem to care for anyone else, she had been content. But when, after all her careful plotting and planning, her prey had escaped her, her rage and fury knew no bounds.It has been well said that "Hell has no hatred like

a woman scorned." From the hour that Armand de Valtour married, Aurélie Lissac had but one motive left to which to devote her fire, and that was--revenge.She knew his character well--its weakness as well as its strength, its instability as well as its obstinacy. Patience and time would be her best handmaids, and she felt that her purpose was almost sure to be accomplished ere long. Fate played into her hands more readily even than Fate always does; and from the moment she saw Zoé Laurent she recognised in her a fitting instrument for her purpose. To humiliate the proud English girl whom she chose to consider her rival, to ruin Armand de Valtour's domestic happiness, to warp his virtuous resolves, and master him by means of the worst and lowest passion of his nature, to triumph over his humiliation and destroy his wife's peace--this would be revenge indeed!In her own little boudoir, satin-hung and newly decorated, as befitted her new rôle of a gay widow, she sat alone now, weaving the threads of her scheme, laying the foundations of her plan. His marriage had been an insult, a wrong to her. Well, dearly should both be recompensed, and heavy would be the price she would demand and extort, even to the uttermost farthing!Meanwhile, unconscious of the evils in store for him, Armand de Valtour had betaken himself to the presence of the Marquise de Savigny, for she it was

whose early and unexpected visit had disturbed his amateur performance at stage love-making."Ah! Monsieur de Valtour, so you really are in Paris? It was true, then, what I heard," cried the gay little Parisian eagerly; "and our dear Adrienne--how I long to embrace her!--she is not, then, with you? Your people told me. Ah! but I shall see her soon; I am also going to Provence. I leave this very night. I go to some near neighbours of yours at the Château Maurigny. I hope to see much of Adrienne and you, monsieur. When do you return?""In a week or two," answered Armand, a little confusedly. "I have some important business here--law business. It is hard--it is intolerable, to be kept away from Adrienne like this; but what can one do?""True," said the Marquise gravely. "What can one do? You see you have been married two months. And so that was law business you were transacting in the music salon? How well your lawyer sings!"Armand de Valtour coloured in momentary confusion. "Vous plaisantez, madame," he said sternly. "I never said I transacted law business in the house. I was engaged in listening to a young lady who came to entreat my services--my influence. She wishes to appear on the operatic stage, and she was giving me a specimen of her talents.""Ah! then it was doubtless the lawyer who assisted in the duet," said Odylle demurely. "I felt quite

sorry I had called at so inopportune a moment; but as I am going to Provence to-night, I thought I might take some message from you to Adrienne. Doubtless, she will be delighted to hear that only your benevolent offices to a young singer detain you in Paris.""This woman's tongue is the very devil," thought Armand de Valtour to himself. "If she tells Adrienne these things, what will she think of me?"Aloud he said:"You are pleased to jest, madame. No, I have no message for my wife, as I have written to her to-day, and very soon I shall have the happiness to embrace her myself.""Monsieur de Valtour!" said the Marquise suddenly, laying aside her jesting tone, and approaching him more nearly, "I have an appeal to make to you. Adrienne is my dearest friend. Before her marriage to you, she came to me for my advice respecting French marriages. I told her they were the very happiest of any. Oh! monsieur, do not let me feel that I have deceived her. She is not like me--volatile, light, easily contented. Remember that the honour of our nation rests in your hands: that by you she will judge French men and French marriages. Men are so different as husbands to what they are as lovers; but your wife is a pearl among women, and deserves to be enshrined as such.""And so she shall be," said Armand de Valtour

earnestly. "I love her and admire her above all women I have ever known."But involuntarily his thoughts went back to the day of his marriage fêtes--to his resolutions then. How many of them had he kept?"And it is really business that keeps you from her side now?" asked the Marquise."It really is.""Bon," said the little Frenchwoman gayly. "Then I will try and console her. It must be dull for her at the château.""Céline is with her.""And do you actually suppose Céline could make up for your absence?" laughed Odylle, with one of her wicked glances."Madame," said Armand de Valtour, smiling, " you are too good to flatter me. Rest assured that not for very long will Céline have the opportunity of trying to do so.""That is well," said the Marquise, rising. "But I know that with husbands business is a word of wide and varied meaning. However, I will not interpret any of them to Adrienne. I will tell her I found you desolate, inconsolable! Adieu, monsieur. A week hence I trust I shall have the pleasure of seeing you at Valtours.""Be quite certain of that, madame." And with a sigh of relief he bowed his tormentor out."If she tell Adrienne--but, surely she will not," he thought to himself, as the door closed on the pretty,

fairy-like figure. "Who on earth would have thought of her being in Paris at this season!"But with all her lightness and merriment, Odylle de Savigny was thoroughly uneasy respecting Armand's behaviour. "It is so soon--so very soon to begin," she said to herself. "Mon Dieu, if this marriage turns out badly, shall I ever forgive myself? Adrienne is not like me. She would break her heart over her husband's faithlessness. I wonder how many pieces mine would have been in by this time had I done the same! Positively these men are monsters of fickleness and though we know it we marry them, and some of us actually believe in them! Well, I don't think I ever went so far as that. Probably that accounts for my marriage being universally considered a happy one."And with a laugh that ended in a sigh, she threw herself back on the cushions of her carriage, and was whirled rapidly through the sunny autumn streets of Paris.CHAPTER XII.DOWN at Valtours life was very simple, very peaceful, yet pleasant withal. Adrienne and her sister-in-law agreed wonderfully, and as the young English girl became daily more accustomed to the new ways and new fashions of the people among whom she lived, she grew to like them and understand them better.She missed her husband terribly at first, but he wrote her such charming letters, and so constantly deplored the tiresome business that kept him away from her side, that she really began to look upon him as a martyr, and begged quite earnestly that he would not trouble himself about her, or leave Paris for her sake before his affairs were settled, as that would only worry him.Armand de Valtour smiled at the simplicity of these letters, and congratulated himself again on his excellent choice of a wife. Perhaps a pang of self-reproach did smite him occasionally as he contrasted his own deception with her faith; but he silenced such uncomfortable feelings by assuring himself that women were, after all, so different to men. It did not matter much what you made them believe so long as it kept them quiet and contented.One morning Adrienne sat in her own pretty morning-room, whose windows overlooked the rose gardens of the château, when a visitor was announced in the form of the Marquise de Savigny.With a cry of wonder and delight Adrienne sprang up to meet her friend."Odylle! What a charming surprise! Why, how came you here?" she exclaimed."I am staying in your neighbourhood," answered Odylle, kissing her on both cheeks, and looking critically at the girl. "My dear one, how pale you are! And you like Valtours, of course? I always said you would make a delightful châtelaine. When are you going to begin? You ought to have your house full now. Ah, ce cher Armand, he is not here? No. I saw him in Paris. Business detains him.""He will be home next week," said Adrienne, smiling for very happiness. "But how glad I am to see you again, Odylle. And you are quite near here, you say?""At the Château Maurigny. They have called on you? Such charming people. But now, my dear," added the little Marquise, "I have come here for a good long talk. Tell me all about yourself. How are you? How do you get on, and what do you think of a French husband? Is Armand as adorable as he used to be? and do you love him just as much?""What a string of questions," laughed Adrienne.

"I will answer the last first. Yes, just as much.""Bon! you suit each other; I thought you would. He is a naughty man to run away to Paris so soon; but then it was necessary, I suppose. He was looking well, your dear husband, and he bade me give you all sorts of tender messages. He will soon be here now himself, you say. Ah, what happiness--these reunions when you are still but wedded lovers! I envy you, ma chère, I am so lonely myself.""But your husband, is he not with you here?" asked Adrienne, surprised.Odylle raised her pretty eyebrows."But no, my dear, did I not tell you I was alone? He is still in Brittany.""I wonder you do not go to him then," said the girl bluntly.The Marquise laughed."Ma chère, you will learn that there are times in all married lives when husband and wife are better apart. We had a little quarrel, mon mari and I. He went to Brittany--so he said--I to Trouville. When we meet again we shall have forgotten the little disagreeables. We shall be the best of friends once more.""What is your husband like? I have never seen him," said Adrienne."He is not handsome, like Armand," said the little Marquise. "He is old and bald, and stout--stout in the wrong places, you understand. He is not

amiable either; but he lets me do pretty much as I like, and he gives me plenty of money. Is not that adorable?""And this contents you?" asked the young Countess, surveying her volatile friend with undisguised amazement."Contents me! Ma foi, yes. Why should it not?" exclaimed Odylle, impatient at the rebuke in Adrienne's voice. "Any woman when she is once married has to be content with that. So you will, too, one day. Love never lasts--money does. True, you had a large dot, and so would not be dependent on your husband; but I had a very small fortune, and Auguste, though he was old and--and stout in the wrong places, yet was madly in love with me and waived the question of dowry nobly. And after all it is much more comfortable not to have feelings. They are very much in one's way. One is not jealous, or exacting, or uncomfortable, or always expecting one's husband to be perfect, when commonsense tells us that no man ever is that, nor perhaps any woman either. You can dress charmingly, and eat heartily, and enjoy life ever so much better when you are not worried by fears and troubled by heartaches. Besides, you wear so much better. There is no such cosmetique as placidity, no such beauty destroyer as worry.""Odylle, these are not the sentiments you expressed when urging me to marry Armand de Valtour.""Possibly not, ma chère," said the Marquise airily. "You see you were not married--then.""I hope a day may never arrive when I shall think as you do, if these are your real feelings on the subject!" exclaimed Adrienne indignantly. "You degrade the very name of marriage when you allude to it in such a manner!"Madame de Savigny shrugged her shoulders, and laughed aloud. "I forgot that you still hold enthusiasms," she said. "For my part, I am much happier since I lived without them. Love is a troublesome affair, at best. It is one of the diseases of youth, like dreams and heroes. Once throw them off, look upon them as mistakes, visionary--dissatisfying, and you begin to find some comfort in life, and believe me, my dear child, it holds no greater comfort, no more substantial blessing, than--money.""I would rather be a beggar and know my husband loved me, that our interests, our hopes, our lives were identical, than the richest woman who ever lived on such terms as you have described!""Oh, no, you wouldn't!" laughed the Marquise merrily. "You are quite wrong there, my dear. Beggary is not at all pleasant, and you are far more likely to quarrel with your husband when he can't give you a smart gown or a proper dinner, than when you can step into your carriage with a row of bowing footmen around you, and order two hundred guinea confections from Worth. Love and happiness are two quite dissimilar things--the first really does away

with the last. I will take our two cases if you like. You are in love with your husband. He is away. You sigh and fret and mope here, and look quite pale and melancholy. I am--well, not in love, let us say. I have no pangs, no heartaches; I never trouble about what he is doing. I eat as well, sleep as well, enjoy myself as well as if he were by my side. Now, which of us is the happiest?""That is a selfish way of arguing.""Maybe it is. But it is a very true one. I have always seen that love brings misfortunes. I, therefore, made up my mind long ago to do without it, and I have done so. You will, perhaps, buy your experience--I don't envy you the purchase money--and then come round to my way of thinking after all!""I could not do that," said Adrienne calmly. "If I once doubted my husband--if I lost his love--I think it would kill me!""Now, chère enfant, that is talking like a heroine of romance. It would do nothing of the kind. All women are disappointed in the man they love, just as all men are disappointed in the woman. It is human nature. We expect too much, and then cry out in disgust because our expectations are not realised.""Do you think I shall be disappointed in my husband? That he is not noble, honourable, true! Shame on you, Odylle, to plant such doubts in my mind. You could not say enough in his praise once, when I appealed to you for counsel. Now--"She stopped. Tears of indignation were in her eyes; a lump rose in her throat and choked the words."You take everything au grand sérieux," said her friend penitently. "I did not mean to disturb you; but really, ma chère, with your ideas you are not fit to face the world as modern society exemplifies it. I had no idea you were so romantic.""It is not romance," said Adrienne, more steadily. "It is something more real, more deep than the flimsy passion you designate by the name of love. No one who knew what love was could speak of it as you have spoken!""Does Armand hold ideas as exalted as yours?" asked the little Marquise ironically. "If so, I withdraw my erroneous expressions. You and he shall convert me. Love, as typified by such a perfect matrimonial alliance, will preach a crusade to all Paris, and modify entirely our national sentiments. What a great career lies before you, ma chère!""You are mocking me, Odylle," said Adrienne, with dignity. "Let us change the subject. We are not likely to agree upon it.""With all my heart," laughed Odylle good-humouredly. "As you say, we are not likely to agree upon it at present. Two years hence discuss it with me again, and if I mistake not your views and mine will be allied a little more closely.""I--I don't understand you," stammered Adrienne. "Do you mean to say you suspect--""I suspect nothing, dear one," interrupted her friend lightly. "I only anticipate perfectly natural results from your views as pitted against--your experiences!""My experiences of my husband will never be such as to alter my views," said Adrienne proudly."What sublime confidence," laughed the little Marquise. To herself she thought, "I wonder what she would say if she knew of the duet in the music salon, and the promise to assist that little intriguante with the golden hair.""What do you do with yourself, Adrienne?" she asked at last. "Is it not triste, this place? How can you amuse yourself day for day?""I am never dull," said Adrienne, with her quiet smile. "I work, and read, and sing, and drive, and walk, and there are my people to see, and visits to pay. The time is never long to me. There is always something to do.""You are an extraordinary girl," said the Marquise, looking at her in wonder. "What with your enthusiasms, your faiths, your ideals, your goodness! How can you live in such a rarified atmosphere? It would kill me!"Adrienne smiled--her rare, sweet smile."Nay, you wrong yourself, Odylle," she said. "You cannot have changed so utterly. Do you not remember our talks and confidences in the old days? Our views of life were not so dissimilar then. Surely the world has not altered my little frank-hearted

friend so much as she tries to make me believe."Odylle's face for once grew grave, and her eyes drooped before that clear and earnest gaze."You do not understand," she said hesitatingly. "When you, too, have lived in the world and learned its lessons, you will change, too. One cannot help it. It is a place for flattery, intrigue, shams, insincerity, dissimulation, envy, vileness. Can one have such things about one and yet escape pollution? Where men tempt, and women sneer, and virtue is old-fashioned, and love a fable, and money a god, and fashion an idol, what can one do or say? Believe me, my dear, to withstand the sneers and smiles of our own sex, to hold such faiths and principles as yours, to live your life as you think it ought to be lived, not as the world decrees it shall be, to do such things as these is a harder task than ninety-nine out of every hundred women have courage for! Even you, if I mistake not, will say the same."Adrienne sighed. "The world!--it is always the world," she said. "Can one not avoid it?""Avoid it!" laughed the little Marquise. "My dear, how could one live? What would be the use of rank, wealth, position, if we did not exhibit them to dazzle the eyes, benefit the fortunes, and excite the envy of our fellow men?""You will not be serious, Odylle?""Chérie, I have been so for the last hour. It says a great deal for my adaptability. At Maurigny life

is a jest from morning till night. Here everything is au grand sérieux. Yet, see how I have listened to, and argued with you, and lectured you. I seem to be quite a different being. But I am going to tear myself away now for all that. You will come and see me, will you not? And if they ask you over to our amateur theatricals, you will come? I am going to act. I have the loveliest costume. It will be some amusement for you. Say 'Yes.'""It depends upon my husband," was the quiet answer. "I do not care to go anywhere without him.""Really, Adrienne, you are too absurd," exclaimed her friend impatiently. "Your husband! Ciel! Do you, then, intend to make a hermit of yourself always when he rushes off to the distractions of Paris? But that is a lively prospect, certainly.""I should not go anywhere without him while he was away from home," said Adrienne. "I daresay you would not understand my reasons, but they satisfy me.""Oh, very well," answered Odylle pettishly, as she rose to take her farewell. "I know how obstinate you are of old. Of course, if you want to be a nun you must be one. Well, adieu! Will you come over to breakfast to-morrow?""Luncheon, as I call it," smiled Adrienne. "Yes, perhaps I will. I want you to come and drive with me one day. Will to-morrow suit you? I should like you to see some of my people. There is one family I take a special interest in.""And does Monsieur de Valtour do the same?""Yes; the young fellow, the son, has gone to Paris. He is quite a genius, and I believe part of Armand's business was to find him out and help him. He is so generous and kind.""Yes, especially where music is in question," remarked the little Marquise drily. "I found that out myself."Adrienne did not understand her meaning--nor ask it.CHAPTER XIII.THE winter had stolen into early spring, but the winds were still cold--the sunshine fitful. Paris tried to cheat itself into the belief that the winter was over, but the northern blasts told a different tale. The poor suffered as the poor always do. To the rich it was simply an inconvenience to be guarded against and shut out with velvet portières and blazing fires.The night was closing in, in an obscure quarter of the city--closing in with stormy gusts and blinding showers of rain and hail that beat their way into a dreary garret, where a young man sat alone. The poverty of his surroundings spoke plainly enough of the kindred poverty of his life. The broken chairs, the rickety table, the fireless grate, were eloquent exponents of fallen fortune, and told their tale of hard necessity only too well. It was here that André Brizeaux dwelt; it was here that he had spent the long, cold, cheerless winter, waiting vainly for the tidings that never came--for the help that Armand de Valtour had promised and failed to give, as yet.Pride kept him aloof from the Count for long. He would not intrude upon him--would not seek to enforce a claim on his attention and interest; but all the same life had been a terrible struggle to him, and

pride put no fire in his stove, no bread on his table, no money in his pocket. His dreams of possible greatness faded one by one. He was thankful to play in the streets to earn enough to keep life in his body. Many days he had been obliged to lie in bed to keep himself warm; the cold was so intense that even playing in the streets was out of the question.Once he summoned up courage to write to Armand de Valtour, but no answer ever came, for the Count had been unable to come to Paris for the winter, owing to Adrienne's illness. Of this, however, the young Provençal knew nothing. His letter had been forwarded to Valtours, but Armand had only glanced at it--put it down as a begging epistle, and tossed it aside with perfect indifference. He had been backward and forward to Paris several times, but never gave another thought to André, or to his own promises respecting the young singer.It was a peculiarity of his disposition, this forgetfulness of promises. Madame Lissac, however, had taken care that he should keep his word respecting Zoé Laurent, and all that winter the little chanteuse had been singing at the theatre in those sparkling
opéra bouffes which so delight the Parisians, with their mingled buffoonery, indecency, and scenic display. She had been a great success, and her two illustrious protectors were proud of the fact, though they kept their interest in her proceedings well in the background.Armand de Valtour had been greatly annoyed at

his wife's inability to pass the winter in Paris, but the doctors had assured him it was impossible. Her life at Valtours had been passed almost entirely indoors, and chiefly in the companionship of Céline.The part of a devoted husband to an invalid wife was not one that Armand cared to play, and even Adrienne's love-blinded eyes at last perceived that. But she was too proud to complain, or make any demands on his time or attention. She busied herself with schemes of good. She did her utmost to make that cold dreary winter a time less hard to the poor and the peasants on her husband's lands, and she succeeded in winning many a grateful prayer, a loving blessing from those whom her care and ministry succoured and helped. It grieved her that Armand did not share her interest or throw himself into her schemes. She remembered, with a pang, his words to her on first coming to Valtours, that she should teach him how to be worthy of his people's love--that she would make his home a home indeed. But she had done neither.Where had she failed? she asked herself. But she could not answer the question. It was not likely she should so answer it when she never dared acknowledge that the fault lay in the man she loved. Occasionally after one of his visits to Paris he would return as loving, as devoted, as in the early days of their marriage. He would charm her as of old by his looks and words and ways, and that 

peculiar fascination he had always had for her would return with double force.She would thrust aside the shadow that threatened to come between her and her love, and give herself up to the happiness of the moment, only to feel again the bitterness of disappointment as his variable nature changed, and she again saw herself neglected or apparently forgotten. She had asked him once for news of André Brizeaux, and he had told her impatiently that he was all right--had procured some engagement in Paris. Adrienne believed him, and said no more. She wondered sometimes that little Maï kept aloof from the château so much, that any offer of assistance or help was proudly rejected. She was far enough from guessing the real reason then.Armand de Valtour had grown tired of the pretty child. She was not at all what he imagined. No flattery, no tempting, had any effect upon her. She did not even seem to understand what he meant. "She is stupid," he would say to himself impatiently, as he returned home after some interview he had contrived to bring about under the cloak of accident.But she was not at all stupid, only faithful. Perhaps in Armand de Valtour's mind the two were synonymous terms.He had meant to amuse himself with her as a pastime; a little flattery, a little wooing, a little folly, but none of those things would Maï see or understand. She had not merely the innocence of ignorance, but also the innocent purity of a loving, faithful

soul, and Armand de Valtour recognised this fact at last.In a fit of pique he had separated her from her lover. It had not pleased him that André Brizeaux should possess these charms, or hold the love of this peasant maiden so securely, and to part them had been so easy that he could not resist doing it. But the girl was different to anything he had imagined, and the discovery angered him."Do you want to hear of André?" he said to her, after one of those visits to Paris, which lasted longer now each time they occurred.He had met her on the road leading from Valtours. She had been to the town on an errand, and was returning home in the grey winter dusk. Dark as it was he could see the scarlet flush rise to her cheeks, the soft light in the beautiful dark eyes upraised to his own."Have you seen him, monsieur; is he well?" she asked quickly."Oh, yes, he is well," said Armand indifferently. He was looking at her critically. His eyes had been long accustomed to read women's natures; what they read of hers displeased him."And is he great; has he found what he sought?" she asked him eagerly.Armand smiled coldly. "I fancy not," he said. "You see, fame is not reached by stretching out one's hand. It is the labour of long years to climb to the height where it abides."She looked down. The ardour and eagerness left her face. "He never writes," she said. "I think the old man would forgive him if he did. He frets for his absence, I know, though he will say nothing--even to me. Does André forget us, do you think?""Perhaps," answered the Count. "One is apt to do that--in Paris."She hung her head and was silent. After all, why should she complain? André had a right to please himself. She made a movement as if to go on, but Armand de Valtour had not seen her for long now, and he did not choose that she should leave him so quickly."Supposing he did forget you?" he said. "Supposing he never came back?""It is not wise to meet our griefs before they come to us," was the answer. "I do not think André is ungrateful, whatever he may be besides. If he be great one day, as doubtless he will, I am sure his thoughts will turn to home, for the world, with all its riches, can never give him such love as we hold."Armand de Valtour felt rebuked."He does not half know her value, poor girl," he said to himself. "And how wise she is in her very simplicity! No gold can buy love, as she says.""Perhaps there are other things he may prefer even to love," he said aloud. "André is different to you, Maï.""I know that," she answered. "I was never half worthy of him. But, all the same, I cannot change, even if he does."He laughed--a little low laugh. "You foolish child," he said. "With your beauty you might rule the world yonder. Why waste youth and life on a shadow, when the warm living reality lies almost within your grasp?"Her clear, soft eyes looked up to him. "I do not understand you," she said. "My life can never be different to what it is. I do not wish it even, unless--""Unless?" he questioned, as she paused.The warm blood softly flushed her face again."Unless André desired it," she said.He was silent then, and moved aside and let her pass up the dark and silent road, while, abashed and wondering, he took his own way homeward through the gathering dusk."Strange she should not understand yet," he said to himself. "Another woman would have read my meaning long ago. Shall I leave her alone after all? Poor little Maï! Well, her lover will never come back to her--that I know. Fame or a grave, he said to me once. It will not be fame, I fancy."Then he went home and sat by Adrienne's couch, and talked to her softly and tenderly, as he well knew how, and told her of the alterations he was making in his hotel in Paris for her, and of the art treasures it held; and painted, in sweet, persuasive

words, the life she would lead there, with its mingled sovereignty and pleasure and endless delight.Adrienne listened, content enough so that he was by her side, though the pictures of the great world that he drew for her with the skill of words and the knowledge of long experience had less allurement than the thought that he would be always with her, that her triumphs would be his, and that no longer would he find excuse to leave her for these long, solitary weeks. In her own way, Adrienne was as innocent as Maï.Meantime, while those he had forsaken thought of him with tender love and patient uncomplaint, André Brizeaux was tasting the bitterness of failure, the heart-sickness of disappointment, the cruelty of poverty and want.To come to a great city, friendless and unknown, and then by one's own genius or merits take it by storm, is doubtless a wonderful thing. Its rarity makes one sceptical as to its possibility. It reads admirably in romance; but in reality it seems a trifle impracticable. André had fled to Paris with an artist's ambition and a perfect faith in the destiny to which he had blindly trusted himself.But he was ignorant what to do, to whom to turn, and a certain nervousness and diffidence kept him from showing himself at his best when he applied to agents or directors.A word of influence might have helped him; but

that word was never spoken, and he gradually awoke to the fact that he must do what he could for himself, since no other friend was at hand. How he lived on through that winter he hardly knew. The street where he was located was one almost entirely tenanted by instrument makers and dealers. In the house of one of these he had lodged since he first came to Paris. He was an old man and very poor, but he was kind-hearted withal, and pitied sincerely the handsome young peasant, with his beautiful voice, and strange ignorance, and complete friendlessness.André sat alone in his garret one cold spring night pondering over the difficulties that beset him--wondering a little whether it would not be best after all to return to Provence and beg his father's forgiveness. But yet the thought of the old life was more distasteful than ever.Moved by some sudden impulse, he rose at last and seized his hat and went out into the bleak and bitter night. The rain had ceased for a time, but the wind blew in strong fierce gusts. It penetrated his thin clothing and numbed him to the bone. Still he went on doggedly, on past the quarters of the poor to the Faubourg, where the hotels of the great and wealthy in Paris were situated.The lights shone brilliantly, people were moving to and fro. In the courtyard of one of the large buildings a little crowd was waiting. He paused among them, and as he stood there, a woman, young and lovely, came out to her carriage, wrapped all in

soft white furs. He saw her face, and involuntarily started forward, the blood crimsoning his forehead, his eyes wild, eager, entreating. But at the same moment a man stepped out into the glare of light and got into the carriage and seated himself by her side.It was the Count de Valtour.André drew back as swiftly as he had advanced. A murmur of admiration from those around fell on his ears. His heart grew faint and sick. The horses plunged and reared, the carriage was driven off, and like one in a dream, he left the gates and went on his way with the memory of that fair sweet face ever in his mind."She is in Paris, too," he thought to himself, when his brain grew less dizzy. "Ah, she will be kinder than her husband. She is not one who easily forgets."He seemed again to see her as he had seen her at the marriage fêtes. The sweet smile, the lovely face that had looked to him like an angel's. And once again the scent of the white roses came back to him amidst the dreams and desolation of the night. But he went on now, feeling no longer the cold, and misery, and wretchedness of his life. Hope had come to his heart again.CHAPTER XIV.AT noon next day as Adrienne sat alone in her own boudoir a servant came, and brought her a card. She looked at it--it was no fashionable one, glazed and perfumed, but simply a common bit of pasteboard, on which was written "André Brizeaux."She turned hastily to her servant."Admit him," she said, and then sank back once more among her cushions, while a smile played round her lips. André had doubtless come to tell her of his benefactor's goodness--to assure her of his own gratitude and indebtedness.A moment went by, then the door opened, and before her stood the haggard, wasted semblance of the handsome young peasant who had sung to her under the green vine boughs of his home but a few months before. She started up. The silken folds of her morning robe fell round her slight, tall figure--the firelight flashed on the loosely-coiled masses of her hair--the pale, delicate beauty of her face seemed to André lovelier even than when he had seen it last."André," she cried, in deep concern, "what ails you--have you been ill?""No, madame," he said, bowing low before her;

"at least, not in body. I have taken the liberty of calling on you because I remembered your kindness of old. I thought, perhaps, you might remind M. de Valtour of the promise he has forgotten. I am in sore need, or I would not have come here to-day.""In need--you!" She drew back, and turned very white. "Tell me all," she said briefly. "You think my husband has--forgotten you?"He did not guess the difficulty with which that word was spoken; the meaning that lay beneath its utterance.Standing there before her, he told her some--not all--of his sufferings and despair during the past months, of the vain longings that knew no fruition, of the little likelihood that any of his dreams would be realised, of the burial-ground his talents had found in the obscurity and friendlessness of a great city, of the long waiting for news that never came, of the gradual despair that had settled upon his heart, till that night when once again he saw her face, and that sight nerved him for one last effort.Adrienne sat there among her cushions, her face shaded by her hand, the colour burning deeper and deeper in her cheeks, and she heard the story that to her was only one of shame and bitter reproach. So this was how Armand de Valtour kept his promises!When André Brizeaux ceased, she turned to him with still that feverish flush and brilliance on her face."I am glad you came to me," she said, a strange,

repressed excitement in her voice, "You say you only want a hearing, Rest assured you shall have it. A week hence I have a reception. I have asked several notable musical people--men of influence and judgment. You shall sing before them. If I mistake not, the result will satisfy you in every way. Do you mean to say no one has heard you yet--that you are as absolutely unknown as when you arrived in Paris first?""Such is my misfortune, madame.""I am more sorry than I can tell you," she said earnestly. "But, believe me, what I can do to remedy matters shall be done, and that speedily. I will let you know all particulars in a few days' time. For the present, if I can be of any service temporarily--"He made a proud gesture, and a dark flush rose to his brows."Madame, I am not yet reduced to asking alms. All the same, I thank you. You have given me new life to-day. I never dared to hope for so much honour as to sing to your guests. But rest assured I will do my utmost not to disgrace your patronage.""Do not call it that," she said hurriedly. "Art knows no distinction. It holds equal greatness for rich and poor."Something of the old light and gladness came back to the young, haggard face."Madame," he said, "you have given me hope again, and hope means life. Words are but poor

thanks for such a gift. But perhaps a day will come when deeds may prove my gratitude. Divided as we are now, it seems an empty phrase to say I devote my life to your service; but, nevertheless, I do so from this hour."Adrienne hardly heard or heeded him.Such impassioned devotion, such faithful service, might have touched her at any other time; but now her heart was hot with indignation. She felt ashamed, hurt, disappointed, all in one, as she thought of her husband's deception--his broken promises.When André Brizeaux had left her presence, she sat there for long in that dainty luxurious chamber, which was exclusively her own. Her heart ached with pain. She was struggling with the innate loyalty of that love to her husband which prevented her blaming him too severely even in her thoughts. She was resolved to speak to him first. Perhaps he might explain his neglect even now. But, then, his falsehoods to herself?As she buried her face in her hands, and shuddered at that remembrance, her husband's voice sounded in the ante-chamber, playfully demanding admittance. She started, and then, resuming her composure with an effort, rose from her couch to meet him. Her face told him something was amiss. He kissed her lightly on the brow, and then waited to hear her speak. Armand de Valtour was too wise to pave the way for any woman's complaints.She nerved herself with an effort."Armande she said, "tell me what you have done for André Brizeaux."He stated and looked a little discomposed at the abrupt question. Then he temporised, as usual."My dear one," he said lightly, "why do you trouble yourself about this young peasant? He is all right. I shall grow jealous of your interest, do you know."She made an impatient gesture."Tell me the truth honestly," she said. "You were the first who tempted him away. You promised to befriend him. Have you done so?"He hesitated. He wondered why she asked these questions now--what she had learnt."I heard he was singing somewhere," he said at last. "He never came to me; naturally, I forgot. What have you heard of him?""I have seen him," she said coldly. "Seen him starving, wretched, almost destitute. Of course you knew nothing of that.""I have something else to do besides looking after your protégé," he answered indifferently. "If he needed assistance he should have sought me here.""So he did," she said indignantly. "Armand, why did you deceive me so? Why did you make me believe you were generously befriending this young man, when all the time not one of your promises to him were kept?""I cannot help what you believed," he answered

her. "I have many demands on my time. I cannot remember everyone.""It is not your forgetfulness I blame," she said, her voice pained and shaken now; "it is the falsehoods you told me.""I am not aware I told you any," he answered irritably. "I thought the young man was doing well. I certainly heard so. Of course if you choose to take him up you can. Doubtless he knew the worth of a beautiful woman's influence when he appealed to you."She did not notice the sneer. She was looking gravely, sadly at him, and wondering whether she had been wilfully blinding herself all this time to the defects of a character she had deemed so noble.They had been but a short time in Paris now. They had come up the last week in February, but already Adrienne's beauty was the talk of society; her triumph had been as great as her husband had desired. Yet she took but slight interest in it all, though to please him she dressed magnificently and went everywhere, and received his guests with the sweet, gracious dignity that so well became her stately young beauty. Armand had been proud of her success, even though he had felt assured of it. For a time it seemed to waken all the passion and adoration of old in his breast. He was ever by her side, ready to do her slightest behest; but after a time it wearied him. His attentions relaxed, he went his own way as of yore, and left her to those excitements

and dissipations that were so new and yet brought little of the charms of novelty with them.It was seldom they were alone, even though they were often together. Their lives seemed gradually drifting apart, and Adrienne saw that in Paris, even as at Valtours, her dreams were only doomed to be unrealised.As she stood there now before her husband, amidst all the wealth, and luxury, and beauty with which he had surrounded her, a sense of bitter disappointment filled her heart. Recrimination, rebuke, complaint--these were things for which she was too proud; but that strange chill feeling never left her--it seemed to set a seal of eternal coldness on the glow and fervour of her love.She answered him at last. "We need not discuss this matter any longer," she said. "I look upon it as a wrong to this young man that he should have been drawn from the peace and security of his home by false promises and the bait of a life of success. I shall do what I can to rectify the mistake. I suppose I should be thankful that his death does not lie at our door.""It is not so bad as that, surely," said Armand de Valtour, with a sort of sullen wonder in his voice."It is very nearly as bad as that," answered his wife. "But do not reproach yourself. A broken promise is but a slight thing. Who would think it might murder a human being?"He frowned with angry impatience. "You take

everything too seriously," he said. "This subject has been discussed enough. You may do what you please. I do not interfere with you. But I have other things to think of besides half-mad peasants who dream they have the genius of a Mendelssohn. As for you, the world does not interest you, you say. Perhaps philanthropy will. The young man is very handsome. He has known how to awaken your sympathy before now."Then he left her and went away. The memory of his words stung Adrienne's pride, but she soon put it aside with calm contempt. She knew herself, she knew the purity and single-heartedness of her motives, and she was quite brave and quite fearless where she knew them to be right. But she felt pained and shocked that her husband should have said such words, suspected such motives."How little he must understand me!" she thought, and sank back among her cushions with a weary sigh.She did not acknowledge even to herself that perhaps she understood him just as little. The blindness of love was about her still; she would not blame him too severely.CHAPTER XV.IT was their first real difference.Armand de Valtour, knowing himself in the wrong, avoided as much as possible all discussion with her during the next week. Their life was an incessant round of gaiety, amusement, pleasure. With so many of its hours lived en évidence to the great world, it was easy enough to keep apart. Adrienne saw her husband's desire for her society lessening, his love growing colder and more fitful, but she kept silence from all complaint. The world thought her too serious for her years, and put it down to English coldness, and admired and courted her just the same.It was the night of her reception--the grandest and the greatest of any she had yet given. All the sumptuous apartments of the Hôtel Valtours were thrown open; lights glittered and were reflected in costly mirrors and polished floors; the fragrance of flowers was everywhere, and the brilliant assemblage passing to and fro were like figures in a pageant. Amidst it all the young hostess stood, her lovely face, her sweet, grave courtesy, her perfect manners the admiration of all."You are a fortunate man, mon ami," said Mme. Lissac to Armand de Valtour, as she stood by his

side for a moment. It had been his wish that she should be invited here, and Adrienne had sent her a card, greatly as she disliked her."In what respect?" he asked, glancing down at the face beside him. His own looked gloomy enough."To have so charming a wife," was the answer. "There, again, your taste and judgment have proved faultless!""She is too good for me," he muttered below his breath. He could not but see how different she was to most of the women around. How the innate purity and beauty of her nature looked out through those clear eyes that no ignoble thought or feeling had ever dimmed with shame.The innocence of Adrienne's love was yet untarnished. How long would it remain so?Madame Lissac laughed. "Too good for you! That is a humiliating confession. I thought no woman was good enough, you were so long making up your mind as to which of my sex you would honour. But I do not know if you have made a wise choice even now.""What do you mean?" asked Armand de Valtour sharply."Mean? Well, she is too saint-like for the wickedness of the world. She loves you--that one can see easily enough! but are you the kind of man to keep her love? Are you not afraid she may find you out?""My past has nothing to do with her," answered Armand de Valtour fiercely. "For the future--she is happy enough. I shall not disturb her illusions.""The world may," said Mme. Lissac, opening her large crimson fan and slowly waving it to and fro."She will not listen to it," he answered carelessly. "You do not understand her. She is unlike all other women. She will shut her eyes and dream. That is enough for her.""Are you quite sure?" said Madame Lissac meaningly. "She is not stupid--she is very much in love, certainly, but that we know never lasts. What,--when her eyes open?"He shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "Why speculate as to the future?" he said. "For all you know I have reformed. She is a woman worth some sacrifice, as even you must acknowledge."She flashed a sudden glance at him. "Certainly the world has seen many droll things," she said coolly. "But an English wife to reform a French husband--pardieu! that would be something to awaken one's faith in the age of miracles!"Armand de Valtour smiled. "Yes, it sounds absurd, does it not? We do not believe in the superior power of good over evil, nous autres.""You may," answered Madame Lissac meaningly."For myself, I confess I am a sceptic in most things--certainly in the reforming powers of marriage.""You think I am beyond even that?" he said, with a faint sneer."Mon ami, I have known you too long to believe anything can change your nature. It is too unstable, as you well know. I can believe you loved your wife madly--for a month. I can also believe that by this time you are ready to love someone else's wife just as madly. Am I right?"He frowned impatiently. "What a vacillating fool you make me out," he said. "I know this, that no one else's wife is to be compared to mine, and I am not likely to pay myself the bad compliment of letting the world see that I think so."A gleam of angry defiance shot through Mme. Lissac's dark eyes. But she laughed gaily."Mais, oui! that was well said," she answered. "I think you are wise to appreciate her. But let us change the subject. Have you seen Zoé lately? Does she not improve? What a charming Grand Duchess she made in that piece of Offenbach's!""Yes," said Armand eagerly. "I saw her the first night of its performance. What spirit--what effrontery the little thing has; and yet, off the stage, she is so sweet--so modest.""Yes; she is a good child," said Madame Lissac, "I am glad to have been able to bring her into a better position. She will do well now, I doubt not. For once, mon ami, you did keep a promise.""Have I ever failed in keeping one to you?" he said, with a tender glance that did him infinite credit, but did not deceive her for a single moment.She laughed a little bitterly."Perhaps," she said. "But I have no desire to refresh your memory. Come, our conversation has lasted long enough. There comes the Marquise de Savigny and her horrid old husband. Go and speak to them."She moved away as she spoke, and Armand de Valtour went forward to greet the new arrivals and endure being buttonholed by the Marquis, who thought himself an authority on politics, and wanted to discuss the affairs of the Chambres with him.Madame Odylle made her way to Adrienne."How brilliant you look to-night," she said. "And you play the hostess admirably; everyone says so. Is not this better than your country idyls?""Better!" said Adrienne contemptuously. Then she smiled. "Do not let us begin our old arguments," she said. "You know what our wordy battles resulted in of old. By the way, I have a surprise for you all to-night. I am going to introduce a Provençal musician. It will be a novelty to my guests to hear the instrument he plays; afterwards he will sing. He has a beautiful voice. I have asked Messieurs Pierreclos and Littré to hear him. I want them to get him an engagement in Paris. He has been well taught, and has genius, I think.""Is he handsome?" asked the Marquise. "How charming to be the protectress of genius and win the gratitude of ambitious, impassionate youth. Mais,c'est un beau rôle. I do not think I should mind playing it myself.""Ah, there he is," broke in Adrienne abruptly. "I must go and speak to him. I have told almost everyone here about him, so that they will not be surprised at his peasant's dress. I will ask him to play now."She left her friend and crossed over to where the young Provençal stood. With his pale, handsome face, his brilliant eyes, his picturesque dress, he made a striking picture in that salon of fashionable men and women. As he moved to the platform whither Adrienne had bade him carry his instrument, every eye was upon him, everyone settled themselves in their seats prepared for a novelty in the way of music to which they were quite unaccustomed.He was not nervous or discomposed in any way. Amidst the silence of expectation, the intense gaze bent upon him from all eyes, he stood there and played as he had played in that past summertime beneath the shade of his father's home.Adrienne listened with beating heart to the wild, plaintive notes; every one of them seemed a reproach to her. At her husband she never looked; of her guests she never thought; all her mind was absorbed in the music that brought back that scene when she had gone to the Tours de Champs for the first time and listened to her husband's gay speeches and flattering promises to André Brizeaux."Had he deceived others in the same way?" she wondered.When André ceased playing there was a perfect enthusiasm of applause and excitement among the audience."Bravo! Bravo! Bis! Bis! Magnifique Cest un prodige," resounded everywhere. "Mais, c'est incroyable! Un paysan faire la musique comme ça!"Adrienne looked delighted."You must hear him sing," she said, and turned with gracious smiles to the two influential men of music on whose fiat hung the future of the young Provençal.There was some more instrumental music, but it neither interested nor roused the pleasure-loving crowd as that odd, wild, fantastic performance of the tambourinier had done. Then some one stepped forward and placed a song on the piano, and André came before them once again. He sang Schumann's "Adieu," which Mdlle. de Valtour had taught him a year before.There was an intense stillness. He had no music. He only stood there while the scents of the flower-covered platform reached him like a breath of summer, and the lights and dresses and forms seemed to fade away, leaving before him only one face.To that he sang--of that he thought; and clear and sweet and sad the beautiful tones floated over the air, the simple pathetic words bearing the signifi-

cance of their own meaning to many a heart among the listening crowd.There were tears in many eyes as he ceased, and Adrienne's heart beat high, and her colour came and went. She never looked at him; she remembered only how much depended on his success. Of that he never thought.Softly as a sigh the last note died away in the silence, and the tempest of applause that followed seemed almost desecration. The musical director, seated by Adrienne, bent low to the beautiful young Countess."Your judgment was right, madame," he said; "there are both genius and promise in him; the voice is exquisite. It is rare to hear so perfect a tenor.""Then I may introduce him to you?" asked Adrienne eagerly."I shall be only too delighted."The hours that followed were like a sense of intoxication to André Brizeaux. Great ladies praised him with soft flatteries; men of note and fame in the musical world surrounded him; and no one there seemed to think of his position, or insult him by attempts at patronage. For well they knew that he had a key to success which would render such patronage superfluous in time to come.He bore himself with strange modesty--shy, yet full of grace--as yet scarcely conscious of the triumph he had achieved.Armand de Valtour had been a silent and somewhat sullen spectator of this scene. It displeased him that his wife should have taken him so completely at his word--that she should have triumphed where he had failed. But he could not betray his feelings in so public an assemblage, and he was obliged to go up to André Brizeaux and murmur his praises in conjunction with others.The young Provençal listened gravely and without any word. He paid little heed to Armand de Valtour's praise. It was not to him that he was indebted, and he felt glad of it. All the time that the words of flattery and wonder were in his ears, he only seemed to see that beautiful fair face of Adrienne's, and feel the warmth and gladness of her smile stealing like the glow of sunlight over the frozen misery and despair of his life.He sat among the artistes in the supper-room set apart for them, and marvelled a little at the light way in which they spoke of the sacredness of art, of the contempt in which they seemed to hold it, if it brought less of remuneration to their pockets than fame to their lives. He was so ignorant as yet, and this first success seemed so brilliant a thing, and of money he never thought.He stood and watched the gay throngs moving about the rooms, the dancers gliding through those mazy circles, the lovely faces, the gleaming jewels--the whole brilliance and beauty of such a scene as he had never looked at in his life before.Adrienne did not dream he could see her from time to time as the crowd parted and gave way. Grave, sweet, beautiful as a dream, looking to his eyes like a being of another sphere, who had lost her way amidst the maze of the great world.Once only she had come to him. "You are to call on Mons. Pierreclos to-morrow," she said. "I think your future is assured now.""Madame, how can I thank you?" he murmured, bowing low before the beautiful woman who, to him was indeed a sovereign."By your success answering my expectations," she said, with that smile like sunlight on her lovely face."It shall, if it lies in mortal power," he answered earnestly, and he registered that vow in his heart."André," said Armand de Valtour, coming up to him some time later, "I am going to lead the cotillon. I want a surprise for my guests. Will you play us the farandole?"The young man looked slightly annoyed. He had been dreaming of being a great artiste. He was brought down to the level of a peasant's piping. True, his performance as a tambourinier was as wonderful in its way as his singing, but he did not think that now. However, he could not well refuse his host, so he retired to fetch his instrument.In a few moments all was bustle and excitement, laughter, and explanation. Armand de Valtour led

the figure. Adrienne even joined in it. She had looked surprised when André Brizeaux, tambourine in hand, appeared in the salon. Armand bent to her once, a sneer on his lips."Your prodigy was too elated--it is well to teach him his proper place," he said.Adrienne was silent, but all enjoyment of the dance was over, and the bright music that led them on through salon after salon, a moving mass of brilliant figures, was robbed of half its charm. Yet the farandole was voted the success of the evening.After it the guests began to take their leave. When the great rooms were at last empty, Armand de Valtour turned to his wife."Another time when you see fit to introduce débuants to my guests," he said coldly, "I beg you will select them from a different sphere of life. I object to my farm labourers being treated in my house as my equals."Adrienne flushed crimson from brow to chin."I think you told me to act as I pleased in this matter," she said. "It is scarcely fair to reproach me when I have only been endeavouring to repair your own faults of neglect and injustice.""I do not hold myself responsible for the mad caprices of youth," answered her husband. "You have chosen to play the part of benefactress to-night in a way I disapprove of. For the future André Brizeaux is not to be admitted to my house on any pretence whatever.""Armand!" cried his wife, in utter amazement. "What are you saying? You cannot mean it?""I do not wish you to make any scene," he answered coldly. "It is enough what I have said. You have done all that is necessary to insure his success. Soit! You shall not bring him again under my roof to humiliate me, as you thought to do to-night.""Armand! how can you so misjudge me? I had no such intention.""Words are easy, and in women mean just as much--or as little--as we choose to believe," answered Armand de Valtour, turning away. "I have said all that is necessary. See that my wishes are respected for the future."Adrienne stood there quite still, quite cold, quite silent. But her heart swelled with bitterness; her face took a strange, unyouthful hardness in its sweet, grave lines. Never before had her husband spoken to her like this--never before had she felt that the freedom of her actions, the generous instincts of her nature, could be thwarted and controlled by a tyranny so senseless, yet so strong.But he was her husband; she owed him obedience. It never occurred to her for one single moment to take her own course and withstand him.What he bade her do she must do. Of that there could be no question. A chill, cold as the mistral, passed over her. Had she misjudged Armand after all? Was it her ideal of himself that she had wor-

shipped all this time? She shuddered, and put the thought away."He was annoyed--angered, perhaps. I should have asked his permission first," she said, as she went slowly and wearily away to her sleeping room. Her heart was heavy within her. She had thought to atone for his neglect--to do some good to the poor, young enthusiast, who had been deluded by vain promises and was ignorant as a child, and almost as helpless, in this great city. She had thought to do this, and saw only a barrier raised in the way of her unselfish desires--an added substance to that cold, grey shadow that day by day crept nearer to her heart, and set itself between her husband and herself.She sank on her knees by the bed in her room; a great fear and a great terror seized her."My God!" she cried, "if I have been blind, keep me so still. Do not let me waken to find falsehood and treachery in him!"It was such a prayer as only a woman would breathe--a woman whose love would be faithful unto death!CHAPTER XVI."You will come and have supper with me to-night, Armand?" said Madame Lissac.He had taken her to her carriage after the performance at the theatre was over. Zoé Laurent had just made her début in a new opera, and the house had rung with her triumphs. Armand had been in the stalls part of the time, in Madame Aurélie's box the other. She gave him the invitation as he stood beside her carriage, and he was hesitating whether to accept it or not."Zoé has promised to come," she added presently. "Not that she is any inducement, of course.""Yes; I will come," answered Armand suddenly; and he sprang into the carriage by her side.Someone passing caught a glimpse of his face as the lamps shone on it for a moment. It was André Brizeaux. A sudden colour came to his brow; he drew back, and watched the carriage as it rolled rapidly away."It is well she does not know," he said to himself bitterly. "He is always with that woman now."The young Provençal had found friends at last. His wonderful voice had done that for him, and Adrienne learnt it in a grateful letter that he wrote

her, explaining the course of study on which he was to enter, present expenses being defrayed by Monsieur Pierreclos, who declared his generosity was a profitable investment. The future would prove that. Adrienne had answered the letter briefly and kindly, and made no allusion to her husband's mandate on the night of her reception.Life was very wearisome to her now. A perpetual round of gaiety demanded as perpetual an attention. Her husband seemed to avoid her as much as possible, and when he accompanied her to the receptions of the great world, he invariably made some excuse and left her. Other men would have consoled her readily enough; but to her the language of compliment seemed an insult, and she turned away with coldness and contempt from her crowd of courtiers. The faithfulness of a great love is the only safeguard a woman needs to keep her cold and pure, be the fire of temptation ever so strong. And this safeguard Adrienne still possessed. What her husband did--where he went--she was far from imagining. She did not seek his confidence as of old, but it pained her that he should so completely avoid her, and she made one or two timid attempts to win him back to her side once more. They were all in vain."You do not seem so enchanted with your wife as you were a short time ago," laughed Madame Aurélie to him.And he answered her impatiently"Goodness is tiresome."To-night at the supper-table he seemed to throw off the gloom that so often was with him now. The little Laurent came in, looking divine, in pale blue satin, with dark red roses at her breast, and Lamboi, who had a sort of general invitation to the house, happened to drop in also. They made a very lively quartette, and, what with the quantity of champagne he drank, and the charms of the little actress, Armand de Valtour began to forget his troubles, and once more sparkled out into his old, brilliant, light-hearted self.Zoé leaned toward him confidingly; her artless graces were to-night irresistible."Ah, mademoiselle, if I were but young once more!" sighed Armand, looking up at the brilliant little face with its piquante, mischievous expression, and saucy, radiant eyes."Mais pourquoi, monsieur?" she demurred. "To be young--bah! that is to be foolish--unstable. You are of the best years for a man--at least, I think so.""What a compliment! If I only dared believe you!""Mais, oui. I mean it. I hate young men--imbéciles who throw one bouquets and wait at the stage-door, and think that because a woman is an actress she will fall like a ripe plum into the hands of the first fool who asks her. Ah, monsieur, you are so different--you have been so kind--so generous--so true a friend!""Pardieu!" thought Armand, "the little one is discriminating." Aloud he said, "Nay, mademoiselle, I have not merited such gratitude. You have yourself to thank for your success."She shook her head--the soft, loose golden curls fell into a prettier tangle than ever over her brow."No, monsieur--you. I shall always think so, say what you please!"Their voices had dropped to a lower and more confidential key.Madame Aurélie and Lamboi rose quietly from the supper-table and went to the other end of the room."You see," pursued the little Laurent, "of other men I might have felt afraid--uncertain; but you--ah, you are so good, and I feel you are my friend, and so safe a friend, too, for you are--married. Therefore, all you have done for me is disinterested."A hot flame of colour swept over Armand de Valtour's face."Women were made to plague the souls of men," he thought. "What does she mean? Is she playing with me?""Disinterested!" he said aloud. "Yes, of course, mademoiselle. I would gladly serve you--so, I think, would any man who once looked upon your face."She smiled softly at him--her eyes looked lovelier than ever under the shade of their long lashes."My face!" she said, with pretty contempt. "Bah

that is nothing. There are many better. I thought it was for--myself--perhaps, that you had cared to serve me!"Armand looked at her doubtfully. He could not quite understand what she meant."We will not speak of serving," he said at last; "your triumphs are a more pleasant topic of conversation. Are you not happy now?""Happy," she said, and looked at him again, and then let her eyes drop, and a sigh parted her lips. "Is any woman that, monsieur, who is young and unprotected, and lives always before the world, and dares trust no man's love--no woman's friendship?""No; she is not acting," thought Armand to himself. "Poor little thing, how I have misjudged her!"He turned and looked her full in the eyes. His own wore the mournful expression he so well knew how to call up."I cannot tell," he said. "Women are so strange. So little contents some; while others--"He paused."I am sorry you are not happy," he added more softly. "You are so young, so beautiful. Your life should be full of triumphs, delights, pleasures. But perhaps you judge men too harshly. May there not be one whose love you might trust?"She coloured softly; she did not look at him. He watched her intently, marvelling whether it was of

him she thought; quite ready to believe it if she told him so.Zoé Laurent never suffered herself to be swept away by any tide of impulse. She was remembering now all she had heard of this man, and wondering whether it would be worth her while to delude him. But he saw only the colour wavering in her face, the stormy swell of her bosom, the tremulous quiver of her lovely mouth, saw and interpreted these signs to his own wishes.For a full hour or more they sat and talked thus, in low whispers, with soft insinuations and broken-off sentences and looks that meant just what each chose to think. Then Madame Lissac declared she must dismiss her guests, and Armand received gracious permission from the little actress to see her home in her hired brougham. She had not yet arrived at that stage in her profession when she could set up one for herself.Lamboi stood lighting his cigar in the street, and watched the little carriage roll away."Does she mean to fool him as she has done me?" he muttered. "Petite diablesse!"Day after day saw no difference in the terms on which Armand de Valtour and his wife now lived. The estrangement between them only widened.Adrienne was very unhappy. She bore a brave face to the world. No one suspected the secret misery of her life, and fashion and society left her

unharmed, nay, almost ignorant of their laxities and intrigues. The women marvelled at her. But seeing they had no rival to fear, they enhanced her popularity by loud-sounding praises. She did all that was required of her. Everyone called her perfect, and put her slight coldness and hauteur of manner down to her English nationality.The Marquise de Savigny laughed at and teased her for it."Is it not cold up in those regions, chérie?" she would say. "Have you no desire to sun yourself in the plains and valleys where the rest of us run riot?""I prefer my own altitude," answered Adrienne."You are not happy," said Madame Odylle, with a sharp glance, "though I am sure you ought to be. You have not a care or worry in the world, and really Armand makes a very good husband. Quite wonderfully so.""Yes," answered her friend quickly. "I do not complain.""You might just as well burst into a thousand furies as go about with that martyred sadness in your eyes," exclaimed Odylle impatiently. "You never laugh or seem to enjoy yourself one bit. I should like to shake you sometimes."Adrienne smiled."It would not do me much good if you did," she answered. "I am not a flighty, excitable thing like

yourself. I am happy enough; perhaps just as happy in my way as you are in yours.""No; you are not," contradicted Odylle flatly. "I understand you better than to be deceived so easily."A hot flush rose to the brow of the young Countess."We will not discuss my affairs, please," she said haughtily. "They concern only myself."The little Marquise stared at her."You need not put on grande dame airs for me," she said, a little huffily. "Certainly I will not speak of your affairs or yourself if you do not wish it, but"--her voice trembled a little, she was good-natured and warm-hearted, and she really loved Adrienne--"but I thought you looked upon me as a friend. I am not happy myself, but I should be indeed sorry to shut myself out from all sympathy, as you do.""Ah, my dear! forgive me," cried Adrienne, with sudden penitence. "I did not mean to be unkind; only there are some things one cannot speak of to anybody.""Are there?" said the little Parisienne. "I did not know that. We have no secrets nowadays. Our own lovers, our husbands' infidelities, our amusements, occupations, caprices, extravagances--all these we talk of openly enough. Society has ceased to be shocked at anything but what is in glaringly bad taste; it knows everything, only it satisfies us with the pleasant little fiction that it doesn't."Adrienne sighed wearily."I wish I were back at Valtours," she said. "I am sick of fashionable life.""You always were so odd," said Mme. de Savigny, looking at her with momentary wonder in her large dark eyes. "What can you find to do in that dreadful little dull place. I should go mad with melancholy if I had a month of it.""The life suits me better than this," answered Adrienne."Does nothing amuse you?" persisted the little Marquise. "No balls, no fêtes, no triumphs; not the adoration of men, the envy of half the women of Paris, an always full purse, and anything in the shape of toilets that you fancy or desire? You are not a bit coquette, I know; but surely it must please you to have yourself admired, talked about, wondered at? Besides, you are clever, too, and you always have political men, and literary men, and artistic men by your side. You really are hard to please.""I suppose I am. None of these things certainly please me--at least, only for a very short time.""I don't believe you are a woman at all," laughed the little Marquise merrily. "There is not another one I know who would not give her soul almost to be as you are. And you are not one bit elated, and you don't even look happy. By the way, that young singer you introduced at your reception is going to Italy to study. But of course, you know; he was your protegé. I met him the other day. I stopped to speak to him. How handsome he is! He has

given up his peasant's dress now. He looks more civilised, but less picturesque certainly. Pierreclos says he will be one of the most famous tenors ever heard. Are you not glad? Why, how pale you are! What have I said now?"Adrienne had listened with eloquent dim eyes. She was so glad, so glad--and yet was it not her impulsive interference in his behalf that had first caused this estrangement between her husband and herself?She turned away as her friend ceased."I know it all," she said; "yes, I am very glad. I hope he will one day be as great as he deserves."Madame Odylle looked at her musingly."Has she a carte tendre of Provence?" she thought; "does this young genius interest her so much? No, it cannot be; she is in love with that faithless husband still. I wonder when her eyes will really be opened?"She little guessed how soon!CHAPTER XVII.THE season went on its way, and the tide of fashionable life went with it. The waste, the magnificence, the fatigue of it all wearied and sickened Adrienne. She scarcely ever saw her husband now alone. She knew that he avoided her purposely, and she could not bring herself to plead for the devotion of past times.Of late a strange, sweet hope had come to her--something she hardly dared whisper to herself as a certainty, but it gave new life to her heart, a fuller, richer beauty to her face. "When he knows," she told herself, "he will forget all this coldness and estrangement. He will be glad as I am myself."She knew nothing of what the world said of him--nothing of the rumours respecting him and the little Laurent--nothing of Madame Lissac's triumph as she saw her scheme of vengeance slowly approaching completion, and waited till it should be ripe for the finishing touch.One warm evening in May Adrienne was sitting alone in her boudoir. She had returned from paying some visits, and was resting herself till dinner-time. After that there would be half-a-dozen entertainments awaiting her selection. How weary she was of it all!Presently her maid entered with some tea and a salver of letters, which she placed on the table beside her young mistress. Adrienne took them up indifferently. One was from Céline. She read that eagerly and with interest. It always pleased her to hear of Valtours. She laid it aside at last. A little smile curved her lips. She would be soon going back to the château now, and how pleased Céline would be when she heard.Her fingers had mechanically broken open another envelope. Her eyes fell on the lines traced by a strange and unknown hand. She sat as if suddenly turned to stone. Her face grew ghastly in its pallor."MADAME," she read, "if you are ignorant of what all the world of Paris knows, namely, your husband's open infidelity, come at midnight to the Rue d'Antoine, No. 9. He has a supper-party there, and his mistress will be present. If you believe this information, and tax him with its truth, he will deny it. If you come yourself you will have clear proof of how you are deceived and wronged. The supper is at twelve. I will let you in, and place you where you may be unseen and yet satisfy your eyes and ears that what I say is true."A SINCERE AND HUMBLE WELL-WISHER."Adrienne never knew if it was an hour or a moment that she sat there with that letter in her hands, and that crushing, numbing sense of misery weighing upon her heart.She struggled to shake it off, but it seemed to hold her like a nightmare. In one instant all the fabric of her love and belief seemed swept away--a cruel hand led her to the abyss on which she stood.She felt sick and cold; she went over to the window, open to the balmy night, and let the air blow over her face.The lights of the city glittered everywhere. The city that in her girlish dreams she had imagined as a paradise of beauty--that now seemed to hold the grave of every fair and blissful dream her life had ever known.She bent her face on her clasped and shuddering hands. She had been so blind--so trustful, and was this her recompense? The thought seemed to rouse her once more. The blood flushed hotly to her brow--the shame and horror and loathing that filled her soul stung her pride, and gave her back her strength."I will see for myself," she said fiercely. "I will not believe this vile letter. Armand to deceive me thus--it is impossible."And yet, was it impossible?She remembered Odylle's hints; his own changed conduct--his indifference to herself. Was there, after all--some one?She cried out in horror at the thought. It stabbed her to the core of that loving, faithful heart of hers. She threw herself on the bed in a stupor of misery,

with which she had not strength to wrestle. The time passed on. She gave it no heed. When her maid came to dress her for dinner she bade her go away--she was not well--she should not go downstairs that night. Victor Lamboi was coming, she knew--well, he and her husband could dine tête-à-tête. Face them with this horrible revelation and dread upon her soul, she could not.Later on her husband sent her a message by her maid. "He was sorry to hear of her indisposition. Would she be well enough to go to the ball given by Marshal X--- to-night?"She answered the woman almost angrily. She would go nowhere; and, wondering a little at the irritability of her usually gentle mistress, the maid retired again.Slowly, wearily the hours passed. Adrienne had ordered her attendant not to come until she rang, and the woman was nothing loath to obey the command. It wanted half-an-hour to midnight when Adrienne roused herself from the stupor that had held her so long. She almost staggered as she walked to her dressing-room. She felt weak and faint, and her face was white as death. She hastily threw aside her robe de chambre and put on a dark travelling dress and bonnet. Then she extinguished the light, and glided softly down the stairs. It seemed strange to be leaving her own house like a thief; but she thought of nothing now save only to satisfy herself as to the truth of this hateful

letter. She left by a side door that led into the courtyard. There was no one about. The servants were entertaining some guests of their own, and deemed her safe in her chamber. Once out in the cold fresh air, she breathed more freely. She still held the letter in her hand. She had almost forgotten the address. She glanced at it, and then hailed a passing cab, and bade the man drive her to the street she mentioned.It was after twelve when she reached it, and, dismissing the cab with a fare that astonished the driver, she walked slowly up the street. She was quite calm and composed now. Of the strangeness of her errand, the risk she ran, the extraordinary nature of the whole affair, she never even thought. She could not even give way to the self-abandonment of grief. Her heart seemed like a hell of anguish, doubt, dread, disgust. She only knew she went to the gladness of relief or the terrible shame of certainty.She reached the house; lights were glittering through the windows, flowers filled the balconies and scented the night with faint and subtle fragrance. A moment she paused, then knocked. The door was opened instantly. She entered. There was no question asked. An elderly woman stepped forward and whispered something. Adrienne bowed her head. She felt as if she were stifling, and when the woman bade her follow, the whole corridors and stairs seemed whirling round her.She had no clear memory then, or at any time afterward, of what followed her entrance, till suddenly a familiar voice broke on her ears followed by a peal of rippling laughter. Then she looked through the curtains before her, and saw a dainty supper room, all laid out with flowers and silver and crystal, but only laid out for two. A voice beside her whispered:"If madame will but look through the other door she will see the guests."A hand seemed to lead her across the room. The curtains fell behind her. There was the faint sound of an opening door, and she saw before her husband and a woman, young, beautiful, exquisitely dressed. She was perched on the arm of his chair, and laughing down at him as he sat there. His arm was round her waist; his lips were pressed to the little white hand he held.Adrienne staggered back; the door fell to. White and senseless she dropped to the ground, as a startled cry showed she was discovered.When she recovered consciousness her husband was bending over her; her brow was wet, her dress unloosened. She lay on a couch in the room where she had seen him with his companion. Her shuddering eyes opened on the familiar sight, and the shock and horror of that scene came back to her.She sprang to her feet and faced him, but her

agitation was too great for words; she trembled from head to foot.His face was dark with anger; an oath hissed through his lips."What brought you here?" he said. "How dare you dog me--watch me? How dare you, I say?"His voice brought back some strength of pride. She pressed her hands against her heart; its wild beats almost suffocated her. She took the letter from her breast and handed it to him. He read it, and a hot flush crept up to his brow. Then he tore it to atoms and put his heel on its fragments, and ground them into the carpet in his fury."I thought you were too proud to play the part of spy," he said curtly. "Well, now that you have discovered the truth of this communication, I suppose that you are satisfied. What do you intend to do?"Her heart ceased its wild throbs. A great and deadly calm stole over her."Do!" she said, and her grand eyes looked at him till he quailed and shrank before their unutterable scorn. "What is there for me to do? What does any wife do who finds her love, her fidelity, her trust all shattered at her feet? God forgive me that I ever believed in you, Armand de Valtour; bitterly have I paid for that faith."She moved away, but he followed her to the door."Where are you going?" he asked, and seized her roughly by the arm.She shuddered at his touch."Anywhere so that the degradation of this roof does not cover me!" she said."Corps du diable!" muttered Armand de Valtour savagely. "You have but yourself to blame for your degradation. Why did you seek it out? After all, I have done nothing very wrong; the letter lied to you in one respect."Adrienne turned coldly away."It is not for me to measure the height and depth of your offending," she said. "Your notion of wrong and mine are somewhat different, I fancy. It is not the mere question of how far your guilt has gone that concerns me now. It is that the man I loved, the husband I trusted, exists no longer!"He drew back. A momentary sense of all he had forfeited came over him.In an instant she had passed out of the door and out of his sight. He stood looking after her wistfully, and the colour swept over his face like a hot flame."Good God! what a brute I am!" he muttered. "She is right--the man she loved never existed."Out into the lighted streets, where all the glitter and gaiety and brilliance of Paris life were about her and around her, Adrienne hurried on like a wild and hunted thing. A horror of herself, her life, was upon her. That night had been as the passage of years. The life that had been so sweet and glad a thing to

her a brief while before, now looked black and bitter and hateful. Almost she could have prayed for death. White as snow--her eyes dark and blind with pain, so she hurried on, heedless and careless of where she went.Her husband had had no thought but that her own carriage or some hired vehicle must have brought her to the house and was awaiting her return. Callous as he was, he would never have allowed her to tread the streets of Paris alone, and at night. But she had neither thought nor fear of anything. Men turned and looked at her in wonder; one or two spoke, but she never even heard them. Her ears were deaf to all voices save that one which had pronounced her shame, and given her this agony of suffering to bear.A group of revellers, flushed with wine, reeled out of a street beside her. Some of them called after her, and one, bolder than the rest, laid his hand upon her arm. The touch roused her to some sense of where she was, and awakened her to the knowledge of her unprotected position. She flung off the hand, and faced the laughing, roystering group, pale, and fearless, and undaunted."Messieurs, I have lost my way. Can you direct me to the Rue Chaussée d'Antin?"It was where Odylle lived. She had resolved to go to her. Return to her own house she would not after to-night.A shout of laughter was her only answer, and a

volley of questions and badinage that made the blood boil in her veins. She shook herself free from the crowd, and attempted to pass on. At the same moment a figure turned the corner of the street close by, and, seeing a woman persecuted by a group of half-tipsy youths, he advanced swiftly toward her.The lamplight fell on her pale face--the dark, frightened eyes. With one bound he was at her side."Madame de Valtour--you here!"With a faint glad cry she clung to him."Oh, André--it is you--I am so glad! Send these men away, and take me home."No need to send the cowards away. They moved off rapidly enough when once their victim had found a protector. André placed her hand within his arm; she trembled so that she could scarcely stand."Shall I find you a cab, madame?" he asked timidly.His voice seemed to recall her scattered senses. She bent her head."Yes; I wish to go to the Marquise de Savigny."He asked no questions. The joy and wonder of seeing her there was enough for him. The delight of being of any use--of any service--was all he cared to think of now."I dare not leave you. Are you strong enough to walk a little distance?" he asked her.She bowed her head, and moved along by his side,

leaning heavily on the strong young arm that was so proud to support her. André wondered what had happened to her. She looked like a woman blind and dazed with a great shock. But she offered him no explanation, and he dared ask for none. The street was a quiet one and dimly lighted, and there was no sign of a cab anywhere. Presently the silence grew unendurable. André broke it."I have longed to see you--so often," he said falteringly. "I owe you so much. You have heard, doubtless, that I leave Paris--France--for three years'
study in Milan?""Yes, I have heard," she said, rousing herself with an effort. "I am glad. Your success will always be pleasant to me. One day you will be great, I doubt not.""I go down to Valtours to-morrow," he said slowly. "I must see my father before I leave. He has been very hard on me, but I hope he will forgive me at last.""To Valtours!" Adrienne started. "I go to Valtours also," she said. "I am leaving Paris. I--it does not agree with me."His heart gave a great throb. For an instant the surprise and delight of her words held him dumb. The tenderness, the chivalry, the adoration of his romantic regard for the young Countess made him weak and speechless at the mere thought of her presence. But what had happened? what had caused this sudden determination on her part? Had she

heard anything--discovered anything about Armand de Valtour?He looked at her, but her eyes were gazing far away. She seemed to have forgotten his presence again. She looked weak and weary, as from long combat with pain, and he said to himself sorrowfully, "She knows--she will break her heart; and he so worthless!""There is a cab at last," he said; and she started as one in a dream, and let him place her within, and even gave him her hand in farewell; but all the time she knew nothing of what was said or done, and the dull aching pain at her heart never ceased for a second's space.He stood and looked after her, and his face grew pale; his hands clenched themselves involuntarily."The brute!" he muttered half aloud. "Oh, God, if only I might avenge her wrongs!"CHAPTER XVIII."ADRIENNE! Good heavens! what has happened?" exclaimed the Marquise de Savigny.She had but just returned home from a ball. A misty cloud of black and silver, with here and there a knot of scarlet, floated round her dainty little figure. Adrienne, with her ghastly face, her wild eyes, her trembling limbs, looked a strange contrast to the radiant little beauty. She sank down on a couch near at hand, and a storm of passionate weeping shook her from head to foot.The little Marquise was amazed. She hurriedly locked the door of her boudoir, and then knelt down by her friend's side, murmuring a thousand endearing words, soothing her by those soft caresses that women know so well how to use. Gradually Adrienne grew calm, and some sense, too, of the strangeness of her conduct began to fill her mind. She told Odylle of her discovery of her husband's faithlessness, of her resolve never again to live beneath his roof, of the wanton outrage to her pride, her dignity, her love, she had suffered at his hands to-night. All these things she poured out in broken words, between heavy sobs, clinging to her friend as she had clung to her in the brief sorrows of her girlhood, shaken from all the

pride and composure of her usual character by the hysterical, overmastering grief that had now taken possession of her.The little Marquise was horrified at the thought of the scandal this rashness would occasion."My most dear," she cried entreatingly, "compose yourself; be rational, for heaven's sake! What is the use of breaking your heart over a man's infidelity? They are all alike--all bad. You are wounded--insulted, doubtless; but can you make it any better by exposing your husband and calling the world's attention to your own wrongs? Believe me, we all have to undergo these troubles some time or other. Have I not told you often that to expect fidelity from a man is to expect a miracle? Now, dearest, be rational. Supposing I had flown away from my husband's roof every time I discovered some little peccadillo of this sort. Ciel! where should I be now?""If you chose to put up with such wrongs, I cannot. I am different!" answered Adrienne, lifting her tear-stained face from the couch, and looking down at the sparkling, beautiful little creature before her, much as a wounded deer might look at a butterfly flashing in the sunlight on which its own glazed eyes would soon close."Oh, but this is absurd!" cried the Marquise. "Leave your husband--go away from him. My dear, what will you do? You will have no position, no station, no home. Oh, surely you are not foolish enough to mean such a thing!""An Englishwoman looks at these matters differently," said Adrienne calmly. "She will not tamely submit to such an insult as I have received to-night!""A Frenchwoman can feel just as deeply," said Odylle, flushing hotly. "And after all, ma chère English husbands are not a whit more faithful to their wives than ours. Witness the details of your Divorce Court! But here we do not expose ourselves to open scorn or pretended commiseration. We bear our wrongs in silence--or revenge them for ourselves. You will never do the latter, that I know; so you must be patient and put up with Armand de Valtour's faults. You will do no good by exposing him. You will only be the talk of society, and all your enemies will triumph, and half your friends will smile. Ah, mon ami, do be reasonable. Treat the matter as other women would. What have you to gain by persisting in your determination? Nothing. On the other hand, what have you to lose? Everything. Come, listen to me. Be wise. One day you will be glad you have taken my advice."A cold, bitter look came over Adrienne's face."I will not be wise in your sense," she said. "My mind is made up. I will make no scandal, no such fuss as you dread. But I will go to Valtours and live there with Céline, and, from this hour, my husband and I are strangers!"Madame Odylle drew back and looked at her amazed. In her own heart she thought her unutterably foolish."You superior people are always so tragic," she said, shrugging her pretty bare shoulders. "Ma foi! What should I care for any nonsense of my husband's! I have had anonymous letters--scores of them. I only laughed. I never sought to verify their accusations. By the way, which woman is it that Armand has decided upon?""Which?" Adrienne started to her feet. Her face blanched, her eyes blazed wrathfully. "Good heavens, Odylle! do you mean to say there are more than one?"Madame Odylle looked startled."I? No, of course I cannot say. What should I know?" she stammered. "I have heard of him and his doings; in fact, my dear, I dare say you are almost the only one in Paris who has not heard of them. But after all, Madame Lissac and he are old friends. There may have been no harm done!""Madame Lissac!" said Adrienne; "what of her? It was not Madame Lissac who was with him to-night?"Odylle looked confused."No?" she questioned uncomfortably. "Oh! Well I thought, perhaps, you had heard something about her. But that is an old story. Cela ne fait rien. I think she was only a friend.""A friend!" Adrienne smiled bitterly. "What a fool I have been!" she said. "All the world knows my husband's infidelities, and I have been worshipping him as a hero!""You would do it, you know, my dear," said the little Marquise plaintively. "I have always told you love is a mistake.""You are right," answered Adrienne calmly; "it is a mistake. From this hour I have done with it.""Ah! I gave you two years," said Odylle thoughtfully. "It has not taken half that time to convince you that nowadays romance is a folly; we pay for it too dearly to make it any longer a marketable article. Well, dear, you have a chance of being happy now. Tell me, what can I do for you? my house, myself are at your service. Stay here if you please, and if to-morrow you are still of the same mind, I will go down to Valtours with you myself. I cannot say more than that. Only, for your own sake, dear one, and the world's, let there be no scandal."Adrienne smiled bitterly."I do not see how it is to be avoided," she said. "I left home unknown to any one. I shall be missed in the morning--perhaps even to-night, if M. de Valtour thinks fit to return home.""What!" screamed the little Marquise, "you have done all this? Oh! Adrienne--but how you are foolish and impracticable! Why, you have really placed yourself in the wrong. He can turn upon you and say you have left your home--run away--God knows what! What are we to do?""It does not concern me what the world says," answered Adrienne calmly.Her grief and agony had spent itself; she was

quite cold and still now. Only a great faintness and weariness oppressed her, and the pretty room and the little radiant figure, pacing to and fro so excitedly, grew sometimes dark and indistinct before her eyes."Oh! you make me quite angry with you," stormed Madame Odylle. "You think of nothing, care for nothing. Ah! pardon me," she added, with momentary penitence, as she looked at the white face, the weary grace of the tall, proud figure; "you are worn out, exhausted. I must not scold you more. Come to bed now; you need rest. To-morrow will, perhaps, bring wisdom to our councils."Adrienne was too utterly spent to refuse. The little Marquise rang for her own confidential maid, and gave her the orders about her friend's room."Madame la Comtesse is not well; she will stay the night here," she said; "and order one of the men to go round to the Hôtel Valtours with a note immediately.""It is all I can do," she added to Adrienne, when they were once more alone. "It will save scandal, I hope."Adrienne's lip curled bitterly."Always the world!" she said. "If our hearts break, our lives are ruined, our whole heart's happiness sacrificed--still there is always that bugbear of the world's comments! Oh! Odylle, if I were only dead and at rest!""I have said the same thing myself sometimes," said the little Marquise, a mist of tears rising suddenly to her brilliant eyes; "I think all women do!"CHAPTER XIX.WITH the morning, Adrienne awoke from a feverish, troubled slumber to the memory of shame and grief.Her resolve was in no way altered. She would go to Valtours; she would live there, and have done with the world for ever. Since her husband no longer loved her he could not object to such an arrangement. He might do what he pleased with his own life, if only he did not trouble hers. If he refused to permit this, she could be equally firm in her determination never again to live under the same roof with him, and if he sought the law as a means of forcing her to his wishes, the scandal of his own conduct would be exposed to all Paris. In his own way he was as much afraid of an exposé as Odylle herself. Therefore Adrienne felt almost certain he would agree to her own terms.She was right.Odylle's note conveying the information that his wife was on a visit to herself, and from thence would proceed to Valtours, was given him in the morning.The household discreetly wondered at their mistress's unexplained absence; but they were too wise to trouble their master with such speculations, and, in course of time, her maid received orders to pack up

Adrienne's possessions, and travel down with her to Valtours.In truth, Armand felt rather relieved at his wife's decision. There was no scandal--no exposure. Her absence was put down to her health, and he took the trouble to absent himself from Paris for a week, in order that it might be believed he had gone down to the château with her.He wrote her once. The letter was curt and brief. He bade her live at Valtours as long as she pleased, and made the necessary money arrangements on her behalf."When you feel inclined to be rational once more, and have done with heroics and nonsense, I am ready to be reconciled," he wrote in conclusion. "Till then, adieu! Our marriage was a mistake. Most marriages are. But if you were a sensible woman, you would make the best of it.-ARMAND DE VALTOUR."Adrienne read this letter, and her heart grew sick and cold. But it was a relief to find he did not oppose her wishes; that she was free in a certain sense from the restraint and horror of his presence.All the ardour and adoration of her girlish love had gone now. She only shuddered when she thought of him. Her eyes had been too roughly opened; the shock had been too great. A Frenchwoman in her position, and with even her short experience of society as the world of modern vice has made it, would not have been either shocked or outraged.

The conduct of Armand de Valtour was not quite unusual. Such things were always happening and always being ignored; but to Adrienne no such hypocrisy was possible.It seemed to her horrible, hateful, that he should have insulted her love as a woman, her position as a wife, in a manner so unwarrantable. The knowledge had not come to her gradually in any way, but with a coarseness and painfulness that nearly maddened her as she thought of it. She almost prayed, in her agony of shame and humiliation, never to see her husband again.By noon next day she was on her way to Valtours. Odylle had kept her word and accompanied her. The much-dreaded scandal should not fall on her friend if she could prevent it; of that she was determined. She felt glad she had taken the precaution, when, on reaching the terminus, she discovered André Brizeaux among the crowd. He only bowed to her and her companion; he never attempted to enter their compartment, but Odylle looked sharply at her friend's face and began to ask herself whether this was only a coincidence."Did you see your young Provençal, your Orpheus of Valtours, Adrienne?" she asked, as the train moved off at last."No--is he here? I remember he said he was going to Valtours to bid farewell to his people.""Then you have seen him lately. I thought your husband had forbidden him the house?""I--I met him," said Adrienne, flushing hotly at the sudden remembrance of the circumstance.Madame Odylle noted the flush and the hesitation."But that would be droll," she said to herself. "Is it a fancy? Mais, non; le diable n'entrera jamais. She is not that sort of woman at all. Only, there is some attraction; another idyl, I suppose!""Does he make a long stay at Valtours?" she asked."I do not know," answered Adrienne quietly. "I never inquired as to his movements. I should fancy he would not remain long. It is merely to say farewell.""Has his father forgiven him, then?""I believe not. André goes to solicit a reconciliation. His little betrothed is also at Valtours.""Is he fiancé--you do not say so!" exclaimed the Marquise wonderingly. "I always thought he was--"She stopped suddenly; perhaps it would be better not to enlighten her friend--she seemed to have no idea of the romantic adoration the young musician had betrayed at once to her own keen-sighted eyes.Madame Odylle leaned back on her cushions and contemplated Adrienne with wonder, and thought once again what a fool her husband had been."And I was so anxious to see him married. I thought it would be such a good thing for him," she mused. "I really did think she would reform him; perhaps Adrienne was a little too good, too exaltée
for him. I wonder if they can ever be reconciled again? It is impossible to say. She is so proud and he so fickle. But perhaps this will be a lesson to him. They say a man never loves a woman till he cannot obtain, or has lost her."Adrienne was quite ignorant of her conjectures or her hopes. She was very calm and cold. All the wrath and hysterical passion of the previous day had settled into passive disgust, an ever-recurring wonder at herself and her long blindness.She longed to be at Valtours, to see Céline's kind face--to hear her voice. As yet she knew nothing. What would she say when she did? Somehow Adrienne felt sure of her sympathy and compassion; sure of that safe refuge in her love and presence that no other home or presence could give her now. And yet what vivid and painful emotions this return to Valtours brought with it. It seemed as if years had passed, since, with happy heart, and a world of love and faith and promise about her, she had sped through the level green country and seen the blue hills of Provence standing defined and clear against the evening sky. How far away all that time was! How far away, too, the dreams and hopes and faiths of which her heart had been so full.A mist of tears filled her eyes. Her heart ached with a dull, sickening pain. She was but twenty years old, and yet for her all the goodness and sweetness of life seemed over for ever."It cannot be true--it is all some horrible dream,"

she thought, and shut her eyes on the blue sky and the green fields in the beauty of their summer dress, and dared not trust herself to look on the familiar landmarks again.It was like the phantom of a nightmare, this memory of the past day and night. Her thoughts were all wild and confused; her brain throbbed and ached with pain. She only seemed to waken to the memory of her old self, to some gentler feeling that melted the iron bands of her misery, when at last she felt Céline de Valtour's arms around her, and heard the sweet, grave voice in wondering greeting. Then the whole tempest of grief burst forth again."I have come back to you!" she sobbed, and rested her head like a weary child against that kind and faithful breast. "I have come back to you, Céline.""You can never be otherwise than welcome, dear one," answered Mdlle. de Valtour tenderly. "Hush--do not weep so. I knew the world and you would never suit one another."But she spoke to deaf ears.Adrienne lay pale and senseless in her arms, at least unconscious of her grief and degradation."It is better so," said Odylle. "It is almost a pity she should ever awake. Life for her henceforth is a martyrdom!"Then she told Céline de Valtour all.CHAPTER XX.WITH languid steps and an anxious heart, André Brizeaux slowly made his way through the old, familiar roads that led to the Tours des Champs. He marvelled a little how his father would receive him--what he would say to him. He thought, too, of Maï thought of her regretfully and sadly, knowing how poor an allegiance his had been, how little love for her he had.His life seemed almost like a dream since he had left. The dreary waiting, the long despair, the privation and misery he had endured, and then the instant rapture of success, the triumph he had achieved, the bright future that stretched before him now, wherein his own talents and his own powers might bring him the fame he had dreamed of so long."It is to her I owe it all," he thought; and the thought was sweet, despite its pain.She was far above him--a star in the firmament of his dreams. That was all; but he had for her an adoration deeper than human love--a reverence, a devotion exceeding any feeling of his life."And I can do nothing for her! I cannot even revenge her," he thought bitterly, as he remembered her sufferings, her wrongs---as he thought of the
 
changed beauty of the sweet face, the agony that had looked out of her eyes when last he had met their gaze.Mechanically he went on his way.The moonlight lay on all the fair, white road. The fields were green, the scent of flowers was everywhere. It was all so still, so peaceful, so different from the stir and gaiety of Paris. André looked on it all and sighed. He had gained his wish, his dreams were about to be realised, and yet he knew he was not one whit happier than when he had rushed from his quiet country home, his brain on fire with wild projects, his heart filled with a tumult of unrest.The unrest was there still.He reached his home. A faint light streamed from the window; the door was unlatched. He opened it, and stood a moment on the threshold, looking in. The old man was sitting by the fire in an arm-chair; he was leaning over the blaze, and nodding his head from time to time. Crouched at his feet was little Maï. They were both silent, both unconscious of the watchful figure at the door. He moved rapidly forward, and came to his father's side, and stretched out his arms."Father," he said, "it is I. Have you forgiven me?"Maï started to her feet with a faint cry of terror; she stared at him incredulously. He wore no peasant's dress now; he looked like a gentleman. He

seemed handsomer than ever, despite the pallor of his face, the lines of care and thought upon his brow. But the old man took no heed of his words, only sat there nodding at the fire and muttering as before.André turned to Maï."What is it?" he asked, almost with terror."He is always like that now," said the girl; "his mind seems quite gone."André turned as white as death."Was it--was it through me?" he asked faintly."Yes," answered Maï. "For a time he went about and did his work and seemed just as usual, but afterward--well, he could remember nothing, and cared for nothing, and now he gets weaker every day, and I sometimes think he does not even know me."The young man covered his face with his hands and turned away. Did this sin indeed lie at his door? Was his own discontent thus punished?"We thought you had forgotten!" Maï continued presently. "I sometimes think if you had written--if we had heard any word of you--it might have been better for him. He was very bitter against you for long, I know, but still he might have forgiven; I think he would. Now, it is too late."André drooped his hands with a heavy sigh.Too late! Everything was too late--everything was wrong. His heart ached within his breast. The memory of his own ingratitude seemed a hideous sin in his eyes.Maï crept nearer to him. He had not seemed to remember her yet."Do not grieve," she said gently; "you could not help it. The life here was not suited to you. You are happy doubtless in Paris. Are you great now?""Great!" He almost laughed at her simplicity. "No," he said, "I am not great. I have everything to learn yet."Then he seemed to remember. He looked at her and noted how sad she looked; how much older and graver was the bright little face of his old playmate."You have been well, I hope," he said anxiously, "you and Gran'mère?""Gran'mère is dead," said the girl, while the tears rose to her eyes. "I live here now.""Dead! Great heavens--so short a time I seem to have been away, and so many changes."He looked tenderly down at her."And you are all alone--unprotected--poor little Maï!"She flushed hotly. She did not want his pity. But a great unspoken gladness came to her heart as she read the look in his eyes. He had not forgotten. The Comte de Valtour had been wrong, after all!She moved restlessly away."I am very well," she said. "Your father needs someone, and I like to be with him. But you must be fatigued. You have had a long journey. Sit down, and I will get you some supper."André obeyed mechanically. How strange it

seemed, this home-coming. How small and dreary every place looked in the old Tower that had been his birthplace. And his father--his heart ached as he looked at him. Would he never know him again? Would he never touch his hand and look forgiveness into his eyes!Maï moved swiftly and busily about, and set out bread and fruit and cheese and a flask of wine. Her limbs trembled--her face flushed and paled every time she looked at André or approached him. She was glad and yet afraid. Only--he had come back. Surely that showed he loved them still. But the difference in him puzzled her; she could not understand it. Was it the altered dress, or the manners, or a certain languid grace and dreaminess about him that was at once beautiful and strange? She could not quite tell.She watched him as he ate and drank. She would not sit down at table with him, despite his entreaties. The difference between them seemed greater than ever, and into her love crept a kind of awe. Perhaps, after all, it was only his body that had come back. His heart was not here. It was in that great, vile, beautiful city whither he had fled to find fame--from whence he had returned so changed, that it seemed to her simple mind he could never have been the handsome peasant lad who had wooed her under the vines, to whom she had been betrothed with such pride and gladness. Yet what was it that divided them? He spoke kindly, thoughtfully of old friends, old scenes,

old things they had shared in common, but he spoke of them all with no lingering affection such as she held, but more as if some vast distance of thought and feeling had separated him from all that had once been his."I feel as if I had been away for years," he said at last, as he pushed aside his plate, and drew his chair up to the fire.The old man had fallen asleep. Maï's little brown fingers were busy on some homely work. Her eyes, as they ever and anon met his, were full of love, and homage, and shy gladness. A half-sigh escaped his lips. Why could he not be happy here? Why could he not take his father's labours upon his own shoulders and marry Maï, and settle down to the peaceful, plodding life of a peasant? There would be no pains, no fears, no heartburnings and jealousies, no restless striving after fame, no aches and frets of social martyrdom.He looked at the frail old man, whose span of life might easily be measured; at the young girl, with her simple beauty, her honest nature, her tender love for him. Surely it was his duty to dwell here now, to give his father rest, and bestow on her protection. He had been neglectful of duty once. He had given it no heed in the fever and ambition of his desires; but now he was older, sadder, wiser. Would it not, after all, be right to sacrifice his future fame at any cost, so that his father's age and infirmities and his betrothed's unprotected life might be his care hence-

forth? He pondered the question gravely. It was a difficult one to decide. It became doubly difficult as he thought of the inspiration of his romantic love--of the beautiful lips that had bade him thank her by his success. How hard it was to decide! How terribly hard!"I think your father is tired now," said little Maï, breaking the long silence at last. "It is his time for rest. Your room is quite ready for you, André."He started a little. His thoughts had been far away. Then he went up to the old man and gave him his arm and helped him up the rickety stairs. When he bade him good-night he tried once more to gain some recognition, but it was useless. The old man only looked at him with his lustreless eyes, and nodded his head, and muttered something incoherent.He did not know him.André turned to Maï."I am not tired. I cannot rest yet," he said. "I shall go out for a time. Leave the door unlatched. I will bolt it when I come in."The girl nodded.His manner had not been at all lover-like; he had not said one word such as she longed and hungered to hear, but yet she tried to content herself with the actual fact of his presence. Perhaps to-morrow it would be different.André went out into the quiet summer night. The clock of a distant church was striking the hour; there

was an intense hush and stillness everywhere. A faint wind stole up through the vines, the tops of the distant hills were silvered by the moonrays; about him were faint shadows and pale gleams of light and all the old familiar sights and sounds of his boyhood's days, where the old tower rested dark and gray among its clustering ivy. He looked at it, and the struggle that had been going on within his mind since his return now commenced a more active warfare.It was the old struggle--old as life--old as the world's sorrows, the conflict between duty and inclination.He stood by the well with the dark boughs of the wild fig-tree above his head, and he thought of the day when the young countess had come there, and he had played and sung to her, and how her words and praises had been as fuel to the fire of his ambition, and filled his soul with a tumult of unrest. Yet it seemed to him now that in some way genius was but a higher form of selfishness. It had been so to him, for he had thrown aside all other thoughts and feelings at its bidding. He had sacrificed two lives in its service. To-night the truth had come home to him too clearly for any subterfuge. His father was helpless and alone, his betrothed was equally unprotected. How could he go away and leave them as they were, despite all the beauty and promise that the future seemed to hold for him?"It would be wrong," he acknowledged, with a heavy sigh, and his heart grew weary and sad as he

thought of the sacrifice he must make. It was a thousand times greater--a thousand times more difficult--than when he had first decided to leave home. Then he had had but vague dreams; now he had the certain prospects of success and fame. He must give up all. It would be right, that he knew, but all the same the resolve was terrible in the pain it cost, the hopes it forfeited."They say one changes with the years," he muttered to himself, leaning wearily there against the old well, the lights and shadows all about him. "Perhaps I might change--I might grow content. There is the land and the work--always the work; and perhaps, after all, I do but dream. I might never be great, I am always restless and unhappy now. Might I not find peace just in the very hardness of this task--just in the very fact that for once I have done my duty?"Above at the little lattice Maï watched him standing there. Her eyes were full of tears, her heart was beating painfully beneath her linen bodice. She felt so coarse, so common, so unlovely now that she had seen him! It seemed to her that he could but despise and look down upon her."I am not fit for him--not fit," she murmured, kneeling there in the moonlight with the cloud of her loosened hair tossed back from her face, and the tears standing thick and heavy in her brown eyes. "He is so changed; his body has come back, but his heart is not with us, nor of us any longer; and this one

thing I know, that he and I can never be anything to one another now. He does not love me. I see that. If he asked me to marry him to-morrow I would not do it. I can see I have no place in his heart; without that--though I loved him tenfold more than I do--I would never be his wife."Who says that love is blind? Nay, rather it is too quick and keen of sight; and, if it fails to read aright, it knows it does but cheat itself.There is no need of words, or promises to bind faith or insure constancy. Love wants little said, but if it burns with equal rapture in each heart the eyes will be no false prophets; for through the windows of the soul love looks love in the face, and that language defies all simulation.Maï was but a little peasant--ignorant, unlearned; but she had a woman's heart, and it taught her this.Her arms were crossed on her bosom; a prayer was on her lips. There was no sound anywhere around her, and no thought of anything within her save that she might have strength to act for his good--to sacrifice her whole life's peace and promise, so only he might be happy.What man yet ever understood the love of a woman, with its wonderful patience, its manifold contradictions, its utter self-abnegation, its purity of worship, its tender faith, its holy dreams, its inalienable devotion? What man? None, I fancy; for love is ever at cross-purposes in this world, and the best is

seldom loved by the best, so fidelity and devotion are alike incomprehensible.What do the swine care for the pearls of price that are thrown at their feet?The pure, impersonal passion of a woman's heart is the keynote to her life that but one hand has the power to strike. He may be worthy or unworthy, good or vile, it will make no difference. He has the power, and he alone can use or abuse it.Unfortunately for her, it is so often the latter that he chooses to adopt.CHAPTER XXI.A FLOOD of tender sunshine lay on all the land. The sky was brilliant and cloudless, the air full of delicious fragrance.After Paris, with its close streets and dusty ways, the change to this clear, sparkling, invigorating atmosphere was delightful. André had risen soon after daybreak, and gone out into the fields. He had slept but ill; nevertheless, his mind was made up now.At any cost he would stay here for the future. He would return to his peasant's life. He would marry Maï and look after his father's declining years. That brief time of triumph and hope would seem as a feverish dream. He would forget it--banish it. He would strive to be content. In any case it was his duty. To do one's duty is a sacrifice of self almost always; but we are told that it is a sacrifice always blessed to our hearts, hard as it seems to believe.André did his best to believe it now.He stood by the little brook, winding its way as of yore through the green fields, and by the grassy paths, where the olive trees stood in a thick cluster. The sunlight gleamed on the bright, shallow water,

the songs of the birds came from the thicket beyond. He lifted up his head, and looked at the scene around, but all the glow and glory of the new-born day seemed dark and cold to him."It must be done," he muttered, half aloud. "My life will be here for always--now."Just then a light footstep sounded on the path. He turned and faced little Maï. Her face flushed as she met his gaze; then the colour faded rapidly, and he saw how thin and pale the bright little cheeks had become--how sad and tired the brown eyes looked under the shadow of their long lashes. A quick pang of compunction shot through his heart. Was this his work, too?He went forward quickly, and took her hand."You are out early," he said."I am always up at this hour," she answered. "But I did not expect to see you. Were you not fatigued after your journey--or did you not sleep well?""No," he said; and drew a long breath, and looked away from her clear and tender eyes. "I have been making up my mind, Maï. It is not a very composing task ever. But I have taken my resolution now. Dear, I am not going away any more. I am going to stop here for the future."To stop here! The wonder, and joy, and radiance in the uplifted face might have repaid a greater sacrifice."André, you cannot mean it!""But I do," he said firmly. "I ought never to have left, I see that. I was selfish, dissatisfied, ambitious--well, I had my own way. I see it was not the right one; but it is not yet too late, dear. You will give yourself to me now--will you not? You have no home--no ties left. Let me be all to you. Teach me content. Give my heart back its old peace."She heard, and yet hearing, could not believe his words for very joy. She turned pale beneath all the sun-tanned colouring of her pretty face; her lips parted to speak, but could utter no sound. He saw her agitation, and knew then how well she loved him, and knew also, with a sudden pang of shame, how poor a return he could make, how little love was in his own heart for her.She found speech at last. Her eyes looked up to his, grave, and pained, and steadfast."You speak well, André," she said. "But you are not meant for such a life as your father's--as mine. Anyone could see that; it was plain enough before; now--" She stopped, and looked at him slowly from head to foot, the colour glowing in her cheeks like the hue in the heart of a rose. "Now--why, you are like the pictures in the churches; you are not of us at all.""That is foolishness," he said, a little impatiently. He had strung himself up to the point of martyrdom. He was vexed that she would not accept this sacrifice. "I am of you, though perhaps my ways and thoughts

may have some difference in them. But now for the future I will put them all aside. My place is here, and I remain here.""And your music?" she said.A look of pain crossed his face."It will be in my heart," he said, in a low voice.She came a step nearer, and laid her hand on his arm."André," she said softly, "what you say is impossible. If this life could not content you before, how can it do so now? Now, when you know your own powers--when at last you may be great. Do you not see it is impossible? I have felt often that I am not fit to be your wife. Now I know it beyond all doubt. Dear, I am speaking the truth only. I could not marry you, because I know I could not make you happy. Do not speak again of sacrificing your life for me. I am not worth it, nor could I ever consent to it, not if you prayed me on your knees."He looked at her in amazement. He had never heard her speak like this."I think it is hardly a question for you to decide," he said very gently. "As my father's son, my place is here; as your betrothed husband, I have a right to give you a home and protection, and I mean to do it."She made a little proud gesture.You cannot against my wishes," she said. "And I am quite resolved I will not marry you, André.""Is this how you keep your faith?" he asked

bitterly, astonished, yet pained by such unexpected words.She looked at him."I think there is no question of that," she said. "When I promised to be your wife, I thought you loved me. I found out my mistake long ago. I would not spoil your whole life. I cannot marry you.""Then you no longer love me, Maï?"For an instant her face flushed, her heart throbbed wildly. The yearning tenderness and passion of her nature could hardly be denied some outlet of confession. But, with a strong effort, she mastered her weakness. She did not look at him; she dared not meet his eyes."I do not love you--as I did," she said slowly.He could not read her meaning. He only heard the words, and they seemed to him cold and cruel. Was this all his reward? Were his resolutions to be of no effect, his effort at self-sacrifice thrown back at his feet, neither wanted nor valued? He felt hurt and angry."Of course, if you are changed, I cannot force you to keep your word," he said, half-turning away from her as he spoke. "I do not want you to come to me unwillingly. But even then, there is my father.""I am of more service to your father than you can be. I understand him; he knows me. You are a stranger to him now. You do not even know the ways of the farm, or his fashion of managing it.""I see: I am an interloper in my own home," interrupted André bitterly. "I am not wanted here. Very well. The world can scarcely give me a colder welcome. I will go back to it.""That is unkind to say," answered Maï, her lips trembling, her voice shaken and disturbed. "You are wanted here. We love you just the same; but your ways are not suited to ours--less now than ever. It is not our fault--nor yours, perhaps; but it is true all the same. Why should you give up your dreams, your hopes, your desires, now when they look brightest? It is foolish. It must not be. I am not clever or wise; I know that; but I can see what is best for you. You took your own way once before. You could not help it. You told us there was something within you stronger than duty or love. If it was there then it must be there now. We want to be proud of you. Go your way into the world, and we shall hear of you and pray for you. That will be our happiness. Yours--you chose it long ago."She stopped. She felt a little frightened. Perhaps she had said too much. He neither spoke nor looked at her. He knew she was nobler than himself, and more clear-sighted. He knew, too, that she loved him so utterly, that his own poor return looked almost an insult. He was hurt, ashamed--ill at ease. After all, what she had said was so true, he could be of no use here. His life, his thoughts, his ways were all so different; and

yet to leave them--how base and selfish it seemed.They stood there, both silent for long. Maï spoke at last."Forgive me if I have pained you. I am stupid, I know--I can't say things as I want to say them. Why do you not go to Mdlle. at the château? She would advise you. She would show you that to act as you say you will is only foolishness. You gave us all up--once--for the sake of your music. Can it not satisfy you still?""No," he said wearily. "I suppose I am by nature discontented--nothing satisfies me.""I do not understand you," she said, turning away. "I only advise you as I think best. To lose all now would be almost wrong--to yourself--to the world--to the friends you have made. I am not wise--I do not know. Go to Mdlle. de Valtour. She will tell you what is best. She was your friend always."She went away then, leaving him standing there with the dark boughs above his head, and the song of the brook sounding far away and indistinct to his ears.Not wise--not clever? Perhaps not. But in his heart he knew she was right. Her clear judgment had gone straight to the root of the matter, and spoken out the truth to him without any disguise."If only I had loved her!" he sighed."Go to Mdlle. de Valtour."The words kept running in his head. Should he go or not? The desire was strong within his breast. He would see the Countess again. She was at the château now. She, too, would tell him what was best. Perhaps she might be disappointed at his new resolve--it might look ungrateful to her, since to her he owed his prospects of success."And, after all, Maï will not marry me," he thought. "She said so plainly enough."But his arguments only showed him that he was in fault himself--that she had seen it. He grew more restless and troubled each moment. He did not return home; he felt he could not meet Maï's clear eyes in his present frame of mind.Toward noon he took his way to the château. He thought after all it would be best to speak to Mdlle. de Valtour--besides, he must see her in any case.Arrived there, he found the household in great excitement. The Countess had arrived suddenly. She was very ill--terribly ill, the doctor said. Mdlle. de Valtour was in the deepest distress. Nevertheless he sent up his name and begged her to see him, if only for a moment He must hear of Adrienne, he thought; surely, oh surely, she could not be in such danger as these people said.He was shown into the little morning-room of the Countess, and in a few moments Mdlle. de Valtour came to him. She looked grave and anxious; her voice trembled as she spoke of Adrienne's sad condition.His own agitation was scarcely less than her own. He marvelled whether Mdlle. de Valtour knew the real reason--whether she had heard of her brother's faithlessness. Presently the kind-hearted old lady began to talk of him, of his bright prospects, his wonderful triumph as Adrienne had described it in her letters.He stopped her abruptly."Madame," he said, "you have always been a kind friend to me. But sometimes I think I have done wrong in following my own inclinations as I have. It seems so to me now when I find my father helpless and childish, and Maï, poor little Maï, she is quite alone. I should be her protector. That I know; duty and honour both tell me so. I have made up my mind to give up these hopes for the future. My place is here. I have thought of myself too long."Mdlle. de Valtour looked at him amazed."This is a strange resolve," she said. "I hardly understand you, André. Of course, if you have made up your mind to be married--if you think you can be happy--"He flushed hotly, painfully."No, it is not that," he said; "I wished it, but Maï will not hear of it. As for happiness--well, I think one never finds that.""Has your love for music gone, then?" asked Mdlle. de Valtour disappointedly."No, oh! no," he said eagerly; "but, they are so good. My father, he always did everything for me,

and I disobeyed him. He said he would never forgive me. I came to his side to beg him to take back those words--he did not even know me. It is my punishment, of course, but it showed me that I had been wrong. I have been selfish always; I thought I would try to make some amends. Perhaps I do not explain myself well. It is not easy, but you must see, too, that my duty lies here at home. At least I should try to do it at last!"The old lady looked up at him, deeply moved."My dear boy," she said gently, "I see what you mean, and it is very noble of you; but all the same I cannot advise you to do it. You are not, and never were, fitted for the life of a peasant. God has given you a great gift. Such gifts are not to be cast lightly aside from some mistaken sentiment. I might say to you that your father and Maï have got on very well without you all these months. Do you think that your experience or judgment can be of any benefit to them in their sphere of life? I fancy not. As for being selfish--well, all genius is selfish. It is a peremptory summons to the soul of a man to throw aside all and follow it. He cannot help himself. Your life is carved out for you: a great and glorious future lies before you. I cannot advise you to throw it away so lightly. I think you would repent it bitterly ere many years were over your head. As for your father, he is well cared for, and has every comfort. I see to that. And Maï--well, she is young--it does not matter whether she waits a few more years to

marry you. It seems to me that your sacrifice would be quite needless, if not almost wrong. Such a gift as yours is not to be thrown lightly aside, and the Countess told me that men of great talent and influence in Paris spoke most highly of your voice."He had grown very pale. She looked at him closely, and noticed, even as Maï had done, how altered he was--handsomer than ever, and more unsuited also than ever to the rough, coarse, toilful life of a peasant. All her old warm interest and regard for him sprang up to life once more. She thought she could not allow him to go back now, having once put his hand to the plough."I do not wonder at the conflict within you," she said gently, as she rose from her seat, for she was reluctant to leave Adrienne's side for long. "Your feelings of duty are doubtless strong; but, though I would never counsel you to act in opposition to them, I plainly tell you I see no reason for such a sacrifice of your future. You benefit no one and injure yourself. At least, when I say benefit no one, I ask you frankly if your heart has been true to Maï--if for her love and to make her happy you can afford to act as you have said. Under those circumstances, perhaps it would be best to remain here and marry her. You should know that for yourself."He had also risen, and his eyes sank before her searching gaze. Love Maï--he knew he did not do that. He knew that to live here and sink to the level of a peasant and look after fields and cattle, and

live all his days out in the dreary plodding way that his father had done, would be hateful to him.Mdlle. de Valtour laid her hand upon his arm."Your face answers me," she said. "Go home again; take three days to consider what I have said, and ask Maï's advice. She is clear-sighted enough. I know what the struggle within you is. It must end either in a possible happiness or a certain misery. But it is the latter only you will find here.""You are right," he said restlessly. "But it is so hard to decide.""I must leave you now," she continued; "Madame la Comtesse is ill, as you know. She needs me. Think over what I have said, and in three days' time come to me again.""One word, madame!" he said hurriedly, as she moved away. "The Comtesse--is she indeed so ill?""Yes," said Madame de Valtour gravely. "But she is young, and, with God's grace, I trust she may recover. At present we are very anxious."He turned away. The old gloom and darkness seemed to settle on his life. With a heavy heart and step he took his way homeward. The choice he had to make seemed harder than ever.CHAPTER XXII.A WEEK'S absence from Paris, a week's cooler consideration of his own conduct, and then Armand de Valtour began to acknowledge that his wife was more than justified in the course she had taken."But, after all, what can one do?" he thought, with his ever ready excuses and self-justification. "She has such impossible ideas, and she is too superior to be loved as one loves women. I hope she will get tired of solitude; a few months' absence will not harm either of us. But, I should not like our separation to be eternal."He came back to Paris, and resumed his usual visits to Madame Lissac. It had never once entered his mind to suspect her of being the author of that letter that had led to the rupture of his domestic relations. He had never set eyes upon Zoé Laurent since that night. She had treated him to a scene after she had discovered his wife's presence, and declared he had ruined her for ever. It was the first time he had ever been admitted to her house, and then Madame Lissac had been there to act as chaperon, and now she declared all Paris would be ringing with the scandal.But she was wrong. Paris heard nothing of it, and the little actress's reputation suffered in no way that it had not suffered before. Madame Aurélie shrugged her shoulders, and laughed in secret at the success of her scheme, laughed all the more when Armand de Valtour came to pour out his sorrows and complaints--complaints in which Adrienne's absurdity, and Zoé's coldness, and his own restlessness and discontent made up a large sum."Mon pauvre ami! you should never have married," she answered him. "Or, at least, if you had made up your mind to that piece of folly, you should have married a Frenchwoman.""I wish I had chosen you," he muttered discontentedly.She laughed a little scornfully. She could hardly tell him that she had wished the same. Besides, she almost hated him at times."Oh, you would have been no happier with me," she said lightly. "How do you know I might not have been jealous, too?""Adrienne was not jealous," he said, with momentary compunction; "only she was too proud a woman to bear a slight, and then--she loved me.""I would not be too sure of that," answered his counsellor, with a faint sneer. "If she loved you she gave you up very easily, it seems to me.""You do not understand her," said Armand, some what coldly. "She was far too good a woman to put up with things that the world thinks lightly

of. It is not in her to tolerate a sin, be it cloaked under ever such fashionable disguise.""But you have not sinned, you say.""Not as she thinks; but I cannot expect to make her believe that. I wonder what devil ever wrote that letter. If only I could find out!""Some spy in your household, doubtless," said Mme. Aurélie coolly. "You never were very careful about your actions, mon ami. It is little wonder they were known.""I sometimes think it was Lamboi," said Armand musingly, as he poured himself out some absinthe. "He is so odd, so changed, so different of late; and he was always praising Adrienne up to the skies. By heaven! if I thought it really was--""You would not challenge him, surely?" laughed Madame Aurélie. "Duelling is out of fashion now, unless in very extreme cases. We are copying our insular neighbours more and more.""It is hard to be able to trust no one," complained Armand petulantly."You had your wife; why did you not trust her?" scoffed his friend. "I suppose now you have lost her you will begin to regret? That is so like a man. What they possess is of little value; it is always there, always accessible. Take it away, hedge it round with obstacles, unattainment--straightway they invest it with every charm, and pursue it with all their ardour.""I believe you are right," said Armand de Valtour,

laughing. "How well you read us, Aurélie! How well women might rule us, if they only knew the secret!""Nay, but to be always inaccessible would be also wearisome," answered Madame Aurélie. "The hunter cannot always pursue, you know. He needs rest or success.""I ought to have married you," said Armand, looking at her admiringly. "You are the only woman of whom I have never tired."Apparently he had forgotten Trouville, and his confidences to Victor Lamboi.Madame Aurélie could not blush, but she felt a faint thrill of excitement in her veins as she heard his words. But she only set her teeth hard, and looked at him with unmoved composure."And then gone to another woman with your confidences," she said ironically. "Don't you think you are rather like your compatriot who said, 'I would marry you to-morrow, madame, but with whom am I to spend my evenings?'""Perhaps so," laughed Armand heartily. "I should miss you as a friend. A wife--well, that is different. There is no excitement in safety.""But, seriously, Armand, what do you intend to do about your wife? How long is this farce of separation to be kept up? People will be sure to wonder what is wrong. You cannot blind their eyes always. Do you think she will forgive you, and come back?""Quel bonheur!" laughed Armand de Valtour. "How very probable it seems. No, Aurélie, she is too proud to do that. She will expect me to ask her forgiveness.""And you will do so?""Do you know me so little?" he said, and a dark frown gathered on his brow. "No, she may live and die at Valtours, if she pleases. I shall not ask her to return."A flash of triumph lit up Madame Aurélie's dark eyes. She turned aside to hide it."How well I judged him!" she thought. "After all, I believe he is right. I am the only woman who has known how to keep him. Of all others, he has wearied so soon! But--if he only knew!"Armand de Valtour went to dine at Bignon's on leaving Madame Lissac's house. Somehow, though he would not acknowledge it, even to himself, his hotel seemed strangely cold and dreary without his wife. The vast reception rooms looked bare and cold. Her own apartments were locked up. There seemed neither life nor interest in the place now.After dinner he went to the theatre, but he found the piece dull and stupid, and left after the second act. Then he bethought himself of Zoé Laurent. She was not acting just now. She might be at home. He would call round, at all events, and see. He felt in a reckless mood to-night. The farce of keeping up her reputation was played out. It was to her he

owed the shipwreck of his domestic peace: the least she could do was to comfort him for that loss.He called a cab and drove there, dismissed the man, and knocked at the door. It was at once opened. He entered, and was about to ask the woman if her mistress was at home, when a voice broke on his ear and startled him. It came from the staircase above. He looked up. Standing there at the head of the stairs was Zoé Laurent. Beside her was Victor Lamboi.The lights fell on their faces--on the shower of rippling gold that fell from Zoé's head to her waist--on Lamboi's flushed face and portly figure, as, with his arms thrown carelessly round the little actress, he leaned over the balustrade."Come up, Aurélie, come up!" cried Zoé's voice. "Mais, que vous êtes tard!"Armand stood there dumb and furious with indignation. Lamboi here, on apparently the most friendly terms with the girl who had kept him at arm's length by her pretended scruples! It was incredible. He made a bound up the stairs, and then stood and confronted them.Zoé screamed as she saw him. Lamboi, on the contrary, surveyed him coolly and audaciously."I fear I am intruding," said Armand de Valtour haughtily. "I have but just returned to Paris. I came to pay my respects to Mdlle. Laurent. I had no idea I should find her engaged so particularly.""Mdlle. Laurent is under my protection," said

Lamboi coolly. "For the future, monsieur, you will kindly await our invitation before paying such unceremonious visits."For once in his life Armand de Valtour felt taken aback. He felt small and insignificant in his own eyes, and furious at the thought of how he had been duped and tricked. Why, he had actually believed this girl--till now.He looked at them both--at Lamboi's insolent face, at Zoé's laughing one--and he knew in his heart that in this moment Adrienne had her revenge."Your pardon, monsieur," he said, without a tremor of passion or emotion in his voice. "I was not aware of your position here. Do not fear I shall forget it again!"Then he turned on his heel and left them.The cool night air blew on his face, but the blood in his veins was at fever heat. To think he had been tricked, duped--fooled so long! He who thought he knew every move of woman on the chessboard of life!A man can forgive a woman anything except when she makes him look ridiculous in the eyes of other men. Armand de Valtour felt he could have strangled his little enchantress at that moment when her mocking eyes had met his gaze behind Victor Lamboi's majestic shoulders. A perfect tumult of passion was let loose in his soul. On every side he saw but a network of deceit, now that those whom he imagined were his tools were in

reality blinding him for their own purposes--using him as a cloak to their own schemes."Aurélie must have known it; is she, too, cheating me?" he thought furiously, and with the thought arose a desire to confront her, to learn from her lips how far she was cognisant of this treachery.He called another cab and bade the man drive with all speed to her residence.The brougham was at the door. The servants told him she was on the point of going out. He paid no heed. He ran swiftly upstairs into her own boudoir. She was standing there ready dressed. As she looked at his face she saw something had happened. Her lips grew pale--a sort of fear came into her eyes."Armand, what is it--what has happened?" she cried faintly.Her voice in some way served to recall him to himself. He drew nearer, and looked searchingly down at her face, holding both her hands in his as he spoke."Will you be honest for once?" he said to her. "To-night I have been duped and tricked. In neither man nor woman can I put faith. Aurélie, who sent that letter to my wife?"The colour came back to her face and lips. A look of triumph, fierce and unholy, flashed into her eyes. Her revenge was completed now. What need for deception any longer?"I did," she said, and laughed aloud.With a muttered curse he threw her hands away.

That mocking laugh roused all the worst passions of his nature; his face startled her by its ghastly hue."And it was for this I threw aside the purest, holiest love that ever blessed a man's life!" he cried, in an agony of remorse that was the first genuine emotion of his life. "God! what a blind fool I have been!"The taunting words on her lips seemed suddenly to die away. Her very hatred of him was appalled as she saw the agony he suffered; as, like himself, she pictured the long, blank days of the future, filled now only with the shame of treachery--the horrors of remorse.Then he rushed from her presence as suddenly as he had entered it.She knew that he had passed from her life for ever. Her vengeance was, after all, not complete.CHAPTER XXIII.THE third day came.André knew that his mind was still undecided. Knew also, with pain and discontent, that Maï had constantly avoided him. He had been so used from his boyhood to her ready sympathy, her tender homage, her gentle unselfish love, that the loss of it hurt him more even than he would acknowledge.Madame Lissac's estimate of men held good even here. When he had been sure of the girl's heart he had cared little about her; now he seemed to have lost it, and for the first time something of the magnitude of such a loss came home to him. He watched her daily labours, her patient, uncomplaining life, that had always borne the burden of care for others. He thought of the little tender heart that had given all its treasure of love to him once; of the dark reproachful eyes that had uttered their mute complaint of his ingratitude, even though no word of rebuke had ever passed her lips. No wonder he grew perplexed and troubled, and he could not take counsel with her now, for she was never to be found alone or unoccupied. If he lived here he knew what his life would be--blameless, colourless, eventless; but, at least, he might make one other life happy, and he

had so long shadowed it with sorrow and anxiety that he owed this recompense. Out there in the world there might be fame, and praise, and struggling, and difficulties to conquer, but who would care for his interest or happiness, or weep for his failure, or triumph in his success? No one--save Maï.He saw it all so clearly. The more he thought of it the plainer his duty seemed.It was sunset, the evening of the second day. He was in the olive woods, looking dreamily across the fields to the low blue line of the horizon, where the hills seemed resting against the dusky red of the sky. His mind was restless and ill at ease, but suddenly it seemed to him that if he could but know Maï loved him as she had loved him once, that life would be sweeter than it was now. Perhaps that one spark of divine fire was lacking in his breast that makes all the difference between the sublimity of genius and the selfishness of humanity. The one throws off all other considerations, seeing only the great and noble ends beyond--the other would fain keep the sweetness and comfort of life beside it, and tread on roses that hold no thorns.To be great--yes, that had seemed all in all to him once. Now, other thoughts and considerations weighed with that desire. He could not close his hand on both--he must let loose something. What should it be?As he thought of these things he saw the little well-known figure coming straight toward him.Her head was bent--she did not see him. He drew back into the gray and dusky shadows of the olive trees, and waited for her approach. When she was quite near he came forward and stood before her. It pleased him to see the startled look in her eyes--the warm flush on her cheeks. He took her hands gently in his own and looked down at her."Why have you avoided me, Maï?" he said. "I must speak to you to-night. Tell me that you did not mean those words you said two days ago--tell me that you love me still. My life is so cold and empty now--what should I do if I lost you, too?"She trembled like a leaf. She had never thought to hear such words from him, but though all the colour faded from her face she looked up to him without a sign of fear."I thought love was but of small account to you," she said. "Your whole soul was set on being great."A sigh left his lips. "I think I have been mad," he said.The girl looked up at him, and was silent. She loved him so utterly, so absorbingly, but yet she would have denied that love to him had she felt sure his happiness required it--had she thought that in any time to come he would reproach her for its claims upon himself. Her fate was in the balance; upon his decision on the morrow it rested, but she had resolved not to bias him in any way, and so had kept aloof and waited.It is so often a woman's fate to do that.Presently he spoke again: "You used to love me once," he said. "What if I were to tell you that your love is the best gift I ask from life now? My dreams have faded; my illusions are dispelled. I have resolved to live here, as my people have done before me. My voice--what is that? Such a little thing might ruin it for ever, and then, where should I be?""You would come back to us," she murmured faintly."How mean and selfish you make me out!" he cried passionately. "Come back to those I had deserted simply because failure had disheartened, or misfortune overtaken me! No, Maï; I will risk neither. I was born a peasant--a peasant I will remain. For the rest, whatever gift or talent I have, it can be used equally well here, as in days of old."She was quite breathless with astonishment now. She could hardly believe his words, and yet--he seemed only too much in earnest."You cannot mean it," she said, and looked up into his eyes and blushed crimson as their gaze met hers. He came a little nearer, and smiled down into the pretty childish face."I do mean it," he said. "Tell me if you love me, Maï."She drew back. "But your friends--but made-

moiselle," she said. "Oh, André! indeed, indeed you are foolish.""Do you love me?" he persisted. "If you say 'No,' I will go away and leave you, but I shall never be happy more."Her eyes fell. She could not say what was untrue, and in such a moment as this her whole heart was longing for him--the pain, and weariness, and doubt of the past seemed all vanished."Will you not speak?" he said again, more gently. "I have not behaved well to you, that I know. I seem to have been but a cold and neglectful lover always. Only, if indeed you would trust me--""Trust you!" she said, with tremulous breath. "Oh, André! it is not that--it is not that.""What then?" he asked tenderly, for indeed he felt very pitiful and tender to the brave, steadfast little thing, and he knew she might make him happy, despite all. She was so loyal, so patient, so true. He could read the struggle going on within her, and he honoured her all the more for her unselfishness. Of herself she had no thought whatever."What then?" she answered faintly, echoing his own words. "It is the future you are sacrificing, the greatness you will forego. No love will make up for that. You will repent and regret, and then--""I shall do neither," he said softly, and drew her into his arms, and felt her flutter like a little bird

against his heart, there under the dim shadows of the grey old olive trees. "Neither, Maï, if you will tell me that you love me still.""You know that--so well!" she sobbed, frightened and perplexed, and yet so glad that it seemed to her she did but dream of the clasp of his arms."And I love you," he answered softly; "and I will not leave you any more, Maï. I will forget my dreams, and you shall give me happiness."She looked up at him, a great awe and joy and wonder in the soft dark eyes."You mean it?" she cried faintly. "Oh, it is too much joy for me! André, it is pity that moves you; it is that you think me friendless, unprotected. But indeed I am neither. I feel as if it would be wrong to take you at your word, as if--""Hush, dear," he said gravely. "I have been selfish too long. Your pure love shames my own unworthiness. But since it is mine--and it is, is it not, Maï?--""Can you ask me that?"He bent down and kissed her. Then she had no longer any will of her own. Tears dimmed her eyes; her heart almost ached with the rapture of its own gladness."If only you will not regret," she murmured faintly from the shelter of his arms."I shall never do that," he said. "It is worth all the world can give to possess a woman's faithful love!"And he was right.Hand in hand they went through the green fields and under the arching boughs. To Maï the world was an enchanted region now. He had told her he was quite determined on his course of action.He would write to the people in Paris and tell them he had given up all idea of becoming a singer, and Mdlle. de Valtour would doubtless get over her disappointment in time."And the Countess--what will she think?" asked little Maï suddenly.The friendly dusk hid the sudden pallor of his cheek; for a moment he could not answer. The thought of all Adrienne had done--of her kindly interest on his behalf, and the friends she had raised up for him, flashed across his mind. She would be disappointed--angered--and she would have good cause. But, all the same, his resolution did not change. He knew he was acting rightly--that he could not forsake Maï again."The Countess will not trouble her head about me," he said, with well-assumed indifference. "We will go up to the château to-morrow, dear, and tell her all."And Maï blushed red as any rose, and the rapture of her eyes told him of her deep content.With the morrow they went to the château as he had said. Mdlle. de Valtour looked surprised when

she saw them together, but she knew instinctively that André's choice must have been made."I suppose you have not changed your mind, then?" she said, looking up at the handsome face of her young protége."No, madame," he answered, bowing low. "I have come to thank you and Madame la Comtesse for your gracious and kindly help; but, all the same, it seems to me that my duty lies at home now. I have resolved to give up all idea of becoming an artist.""And what does Maï say to this?" asked Mdlle. de Valtour, turning to the girl."Indeed, madame, I have tried my best to persuade him not to make such a sacrifice," she answered, "but it seems no use.""I suppose you know best," said Mdlle. de Valtour gravely. "It seems a pity to consign your talents to oblivion just when the prospect of using them to advantage was opening before you. Still, your life may be happier spent here. I gave you my advice before; you know what I think. But, as your decision is to remain, I can but wish you both happiness and prosperity. You will be married soon, I suppose?""Yes, almost immediately," answered André, while Maï coloured yet more rosily."That is well," said Céline de Valtour gravely, and she looked from the young man's saddened, earnest face to the shy and blushing one of the girl. After all, she deserved her happiness, poor little thing, only

it seemed to her that they were so unsuited. If this marriage should turn out badly, too.She sighed. After all, it is so difficult for one human being to quite understand another, or take the measure of its intelligence. Perhaps she had been wrong about André; he might just lack the genius she had imagined he possessed. In that case he might grow fairly content in the years to come. At least he was acting both nobly and unselfishly."How is Madame la Comtesse?" asked André presently, breaking the somewhat uncomfortable silence that had reigned between them all."She is no better," said Mdlle. de Valtour sadly.The young man turned very pale. It hurt him to think of Adrienne suffering, grieving, heart-broken for the sake of one so utterly unworthy as Armand de Valtour."I am deeply sorry," he said. "It is not permitted for one to see her, I suppose?""I will ask her," answered Céline readily. "She has spoken of you sometimes. She might like to see you."A few moments later André stood in the presence of his idol. He trembled as he looked at the beautiful fair face--fairer and sadder than ever he had seen it. She lay on a couch in a darkened room, and all the loose gold cloud of her hair was scattered over the pillows on which she rested so wearily. The young man sank on his knees beside her as she held out one slender white hand."I am glad to see you, André," she said gently. "Mdlle. de Valtour has told me your decision. It seems a pity, but doubtless you know best what is for your happiness."For a moment he could not speak. The sound of her voice unnerved him. He saw his old wild dreams rise up and mock him once again. Those dreams when he had pictured himself great and famous, and nearer to herself, since art knows no altitude save its own achievements. All this was over now, all that was heroic, sublime, or glorious in life he had denied himself, and he had not counted the cost--till this moment. He murmured something incoherent, he hardly knew what--some prayer that she would not think him ungrateful. But she stopped him then."Ungrateful--no!" she said, in her soft voice that had the sadness of sighs in it now. "It is for you to do as you think best, of course. I am only glad that you tasted triumph once. At least you know what you lose--or gain.""I know how much I owe to your goodness," he said, looking at her with dim eyes. "Only it seems to me that duty demands my presence here. I have been neglectful of others all my life."She looked earnestly at him. She was contrasting his unselfishness with the character of the man she had worshipped as a hero. She saw greater nobility in the nature of this peasant lad."Ungrateful!" she murmured, "ah, yes; I remember. You left home against your father's

wishes. But then you were tempted. Sometimes, André, I have felt sorry I praised you so much. You were quite content with your life here, the innocent triumphs that your music gained. It was after those fêtes--"She stopped abruptly. A sharp pang of suffering rent her heart. Those fêtes--that brief, happy time of married bliss. How far away and strange it looked now. He noted the sharp catching of her voice--the pallor of her face. His heart ached with a passion of sorrow and regret for her sufferings. He rose and stood beside her, but his voice was unsteady as he spoke."You have nothing to blame yourself for," he said; "you have been an angel of goodness to me always. I wish I could tell you what is in my heart now, but I cannot. Only it seems best to me to let the world go by--and forget the madness that was in me--once."There was silence between them for a moment. Her eyes were hidden from his sight--he did not know whether her thoughts were of him or the past that his words had recalled. But all the reverence and adoration he had so long felt were burning in his soul again. For the first time he saw only too clearly the sacrifice he had voluntarily made.He grew restless and ill at ease--a sense of shame stole over him as he thought "if she knew"; but she would not care, it would look but a mad presumption in her eyes. Something seemed to rise

in his throat and choke him as he looked at the beautiful face. He felt he could kneel at her feet and worship her, as a devotee worships a saint; but with one strong effort at self-restraint he thrust these thoughts aside. They were for that other part of his life with which duty had nothing to do--that part that held all the beauty, and poetry, and romance of his soul, and which he had denied himself henceforth.He bent down and kissed her hand as it rested listlessly on the pile of cushions."Adieu, madame," he said, brokenly. "For all you have done I can never sufficiently thank you, but do not think I mean it as a reproach when I say I wish it had been left undone."Then, ashamed of his own temerity as he met the wonder of her eyes, he bowed low and hastened from the room.Adrienne sighed wearily. She could not quite understand, but it seemed to her that in her efforts to do him good she had only harmed him. She remembered her words to Armand as they had left the Tour des Champs the day of her first visit--"After all it might be better to leave him in peace."She saw now that she had been right.CHAPTER XXIV.IN a darkened room, with all the light and beauty of the summer time shut out from her aching sight, Adrienne lay day after day. She was too conscious of her misery to lose its pain, too hopeless and weary to rouse herself or make even an effort to forget.Mdlle. de Valtour grew seriously alarmed as time passed on and no improvement in her condition took place. She seemed to have lost all interest, to be nothing but a passive agent in the hands of those around her.Life had been so sweet and bright a thing to her just for that short period of her mental blindness; now it seemed bitter as wormwood and empty as a broken vessel. Of faith, and love, and all pure and holy things that had filled her heart to overflowing once, she had no thought nor any belief. It seemed to her that life held but one mercy, and that was--death.Many a human soul thinks the same as it shrinks at the first lesson of pain; the first great shock to all its preconceived ideas of happiness!Sooner or later in every human life that cry is raised. Well, indeed, is it for many a one that it is not answered as they in their madness desire.Céline de Valtour was in despair. The Marquise stayed on for a few days, but, finding that she could do no good, and afraid that her own restlessness and her own unflagging spirits were wearisome to both Adrienne and her sister-in-law, she took herself off to Paris again. That much-dreaded scandal must be stopped, at any cost, and she longed to hear what the world was saying of the rupture in the De Valtour household.Céline, deeply as she felt for Adrienne, yet thought she had acted with undue precipitancy. Men were all alike--everyone knew that. It was so little use to make any outcry about their peccadilloes. The wife was always the injured party, whether she was in the right or not. Yet at times she felt afraid as she looked at Adrienne, as she saw the change in the sweet face, the sleepless haunted look of the beautiful eyes. If she would only weep, or moan, or complain like other women, it would have been more natural--she would have understood it. But she did none of these things, only lay there patient, mute, with the shadow of suffering always about her, and before her in the future, the greatest trial of a woman's life. No wonder Céline trembled for her safety, and grew despairing as day after day passed on and there was neither improvement nor change in her condition.From Armand de Valtour there came no word or sign. Madame de Savigny wrote daily from Paris."It was all right there," she assured Mdlle. de Valtour. "No one thought anything except that sudden illness had been the cause of Adrienne's disappearance, and Armand was supposed to have gone with her to Valtours. It is the object of my life to keep this sad occurrence a secret," she wrote. "I hope I may succeed, because I really am convinced that their reconciliation is only a question of time. Adrienne loved her husband devotedly once--he also loved her very dearly. It is true they drifted somewhat apart, but I think that is because neither of them made allowances for the other. Adrienne in particular was far too exigéante. Modern society has spoilt men. They won't stand interference or restraint. All wives ought to know that, only our dear child is so different to most women. I always told her she would have to buy her experience very dearly. I wish she had some of my philosophy."Mdlle. de Valtour smiled a little mournfully as she read those words. Truly the philosophy of the little Marquise was unique in its way, but to think of her stately, pure-souled Adrienne adopting it was rather amusing."She wants rousing--interesting," said the doctor one day, after paying an unusually long visit to the château. "I think she would be better away from here for a time. Can you not take her somewhere?""She does not wish to go," said Céline de Valtour despairingly."Wish! Oh, of course not--but you must not

listen to a sick person's vagaries! Tell her of the future--tell her that her child's life is at stake. That will rouse her if anything will. If she stays on here, and makes no better progress than she seems inclined to do since I have attended her, she will never have strength for her trial. That I tell you."Céline de Valtour went to Adrienne and threw herself beside her couch, and begged her to rouse herself to some interest in life once more."It has been a sad trial to you, of course," she said, as those mournful eyes looked steadily at her. "But one should not grieve always. It is wrong to God, who sends these trials. You are so young. Life may still hold some joy or sweetness for you. And Armand may repent. He may see his folly and acknowledge it. Surely you are not always going to be unforgiving."Adrienne shuddered. "My love seems killed," she said. "I prayed heaven once that I might never know him otherwise than I had fancied him so long. I would believe no one--nothing--only the evidence of my own senses. Oh! what had I ever done to be used so cruelly?--to be cast aside for a toy that any other man's money could have purchased as easily as his? No, Céline, I cannot forget. It is as if one had broken a flower from its stem and thrown it into the dust and darkness of a pit, there to languish and die. That is how Armand has treated me.""But there is some one besides Armand to think of now," said Mdlle. de Valtour gravely. "It is not

right to yourself--to the gift that God will send you, to cast aside all care for your health--all interest in life. The sweetest hope of a woman's life is yours Think how your child's love will comfort you for its father's errors--how that link between your heart and his may once more rivet the chain of your love, and keep it secure for evermore!"But Adrienne only turned wearily away from all such pleading. Her child! what comfort was in that thought? It would only in some way necessitate her husband's return. It might be a son--his heir--his first-born. It was not probable that Armand would consent to leave him with his mother as sole guardian. There was no joy for her even in that thought. Love had been robbed of all its sweetness; motherhood of all its bliss. Céline de Valtour's words only made her heart grow more sick and desolate. She felt cold to all human sympathy--thankless with the cruelty of youth that has tasted sorrow for the first time, and thinks life is all desolate henceforth.A great grief looks often like ingratitude. Its magnitude dwarfs all other interests and duties into insignificance.It was so with Adrienne now. She lay there while the long bright summer days rolled on, while the scent of flowers and sound of singing birds made gay the gardens of the old château. The warm, dreamy hours would flow on, bringing nothing of any hope or peace to her, and she would turn her eyes away from sunlight, and shudder at the beauty of the

rosy clouds, and long almost that the earth might become dark and desolate as her own life.In after days, she wondered she did not die then; but youth is stronger than grief, and slowly and steadily she seemed to gain her hold on life again, and even her listlessness and apathy forsook her. With the stronger pulse of health came also the return of better feelings. She thought of Céline's unwavering kindness and devoted care, and saw, too, how anxious her eyes looked whenever they rested on her. It nerved her to a greater effort. Someone at least loved her--would be faithful to her. She could not but feel grateful even though all human love seemed to her of so little profit or value.When she was able once more to leave her room, her sister-in-law again resumed her persuasions to induce her to leave Valtours and go away somewhere for change of air and scene. Adrienne listened more patiently now. She had no right to be reckless of her health; that she knew, and the long hot summer had weakened her greatly."Let us go to the sea," she said; and Mdlle. de Valtour answered delightedly that they would. She made all necessary preparations. Adrienne only stipulated that they should go to the quietest place possible, where there would be no chance of meeting any of her gay Parisian acquaintances, and this Mdlle. de Valtour readily promised.It looked to her a more hopeful sign that Adrienne should wish to have some change at last, but a great

fear and a great dread were ever in her heart as she looked at the changed and saddened face, the weary, listless figure. It seemed as if the very springs of the girl's life had been sapped by the greatness of her sorrow, and in her eyes was a sleepless, haunted look, as if the nights held for her no rest or peace, only the ghosts of dead memories--of a lost love.CHAPTER XXV.THEY went to a quiet little place on the summit of the table-land of Calvados.It was far enough from Deauville and Trouville to be safe from any fashionable pleasure-seekers, and had only the beauty of the sea that washed its cliffs and the summer glory of cornfields and orchards all about. But it pleased Adrienne as much as anything could please her now. She spent hours and hours by the sea, and the quiet, and the change of scene, and the cool, salt air and fresh winds did her good, and some of the bodily weakness and languor left her. Still, she was terribly changed, and Mdlle. de Valtour's heart ached as she watched her day by day.From Armand there came no word, but the Marquise de Savigny wrote that he had left Paris abruptly, and gone abroad. "I am coming to pay you a visit one of these days myself," continued the letter. "I want to see where you have buried yourself, and also how you are looking. Besides, I am sure you want someone to rouse and amuse you, and I know I have always been able to do that.""She is a warm-hearted little thing, with all her frivolity," smiled Adrienne sadly, as she handed the letter to her sister-in-law."I should be glad if she would come," answered Mdlle. de Valtour. "I often think I am but a dull companion for you.""Never think that," said the girl tenderly. "You are goodness itself. I often wonder what I should have done without you."But Céline only sighed. She knew that all she could do and all the love she had for her brother's wife was yet of no avail to chase the sadness from her face or give back peace to her heart.Meanwhile Armand de Valtour had fled from Paris heartsick and disgusted. For once he woke to the fact that even a man who has studied women all his life may be duped and tricked by one. He had believed in Aurélie Lissac; he had never deemed it possible that she would attempt to cheat him, and he had felt a compassionate interest in her, knowing well that her love for himself was not yet extinct, and all the time she had woven this net for his feet--had contrived to separate him from his wife, to make him appear an unscrupulous villain in her eyes, and effectually robbed him of the purest, truest love that his life had ever known.No wonder he cursed his own folly and blindness. No wonder he rushed from every sight and sound that could remind him of the women who had been the marplots of his happiness. In all his facile, careless, selfish life he had never felt as he felt now. He had never before seen his actions unmasked by false

sophistries, staring him in the face with all their nakedness and vileness unveiled, until for very shame he hid his face from sight, and a pang of remorse struck to his heart. No wonder Adrienne had left him in disgust. No wonder she had spoken out those words, whose memory haunted all his better moments: "The man I loved exists no longer."She would never forgive him--of that he felt sure. She was so proud, so pure, so noble, and he had treated her no better than if she had been faithless and vile as so many other women were.The long habits of a selfish life--the evil taint of example--the negligence and softness of his own temperament--these had been his destroyers. He felt a hatred of them all now, now when he saw the price he had paid for them, and knew that no deed or word of his would give him back his wife's love and faith again.From place to place, from city to city he took his way. Always restless, often unhappy; never able to purchase forgetfulness, though he would have paid any price for its relief; a settled disgust and loathing of all the shams, and follies, and frivolities of society ever present in his heart. He felt bitterly impatient of himself at times. Impatient because his pleasure-loving temperament hated to be disturbed, because he could not shake off this one memory, or content himself with the philosophy of old.There comes such a time in the lives of almost all men, unless, indeed, they are irredeemably bad. A

time when the virtue they have mocked at all their lives shines crystal clear in the sea of surrounding blackness made by their own sins and follies.Many men affect to think lightly of women until the affectation becomes a habit, and by it they judge the worth of all the love they gain. But even to them Fate sometimes measures out severer justice than they dream exists, and a day comes when they waken to the fact that one woman among the world of others is forcing them to recant their past heresies--is gradually becoming dearer, sweeter to their hearts than their wildest dreams could have imagined, and as they stretch out their hands, crying, "Give me happiness--at last!" she fades away before their sight into the regions of unattainment, or looks sadly back to their longing eyes from behind the barriers of Fate.They cry out it is hard--but, after all, it is but just!Armand de Valtour found himself one day at Trouville. It brought back many painful memories, but they were the memories that were always with him now. The blue tranquil sea, the pretty houses, the old familiar promenade, the gay crowds, just so it had been a year ago. What a year that had been! How much he had gained and lost. He thought of it all as he looked at the sparkling water. What a fool he had been--oh, what a fool!Two days at Trouville drove him desperate. He

left abruptly, and went to place after place along the coast of Calvados. One evening, toward sunset, he drove to a little half-hidden nook he had seen nestling amongst the tall cliffs. There were but few houses, and these chiefly of the peasant and fisher-people. One or two châteaux were buried amongst the trees, and all the country round was quiet and tranquil to a degree. He made some inquiries about the place, and heard that few people ever came there, save invalids or tourists. There was a park where they walked; it was not far, and the grounds were beautiful, and the view along the sea-coast very fine. He thought he would stroll there and see the place for himself.The directions he had received were easily followed. He found himself in the park very soon. But he found also that it was a sort of public promenade. A little crowd of people were moving about. A few ladies, evidently invalids, a few bonnes with their young charges, a priest or two, with their black cassocks and breviary in hand, and two or three men, mostly old. They were walking to and fro under the trees. Armand seated himself at some little distance and watched them with careless unconcern. An elderly man, who looked like a doctor, was at the other end of the seat. He addressed a few words to the stranger, but though Armand answered with his unfailing courtesy, he made no effort to prolong the conversation, and presently the gentleman rose and left him sole occupant. At that moment

Armand de Valtour's eyes were attracted by the appearance of two ladies who had just emerged from the little crowd by the gates, and were coming straight toward himself. A moment he gazed incredulously--then turned white as death."Heavens!" he cried, half aloud, "it is my wife!"She did not see him; she was leaning on Mdlle. de Valtour's arm, and walking slowly and wearily along. He sat there, confused--undecided--growing hot and cold by turns. Another instant, and she would see him. Would she speak, or pass on like a stranger? Céline and Adrienne were quite close before they lifted their eyes. Then there was a cry--a gasping for breath--and, pale as a corpse, Adrienne stood there, facing him in the evening sunlight. For a moment none of them spoke. They were too utterly bewildered. Armand recovered his presence of mind first. He rose, and bowed low before them."I did not expect to see you here," he said, quite humbly. "Are you staying at this place?""Yes," said Mdlle. de Valtour, giving him her hand.Adrienne neither spoke nor looked, but she trembled from head to foot. The familiar tones of that musical voice went through her like a knife."I but came over for a day," he went on mechanically.His eyes were on his wife's changed face. How altered she was; and there was something about

her that puzzled him. He could not say what it was. Then a sudden memory of all that had passed between them when last they parted came over him. But, since Fate had thrown her in his way, he resolved to make some effort to regain at least a portion of her regard."May I see you? May I call?" he asked timidly. "I have something to say. I--""Monsieur," interrupted Adrienne coldly. "I am your sister's guest. It is for her to receive whom she pleases."The cold, inflexible tone chilled him more than the words. To think that this woman had once loved him--had rested in his arms and kissed his lips? It seemed incredible."May I come, Céline?" he asked, very quickly."Yes, of course, if you wish it," stammered his sister. She felt it was all so odd--so unaccountable. What could he desire? And yet, how strangely humble and penitent he looked! Was it possible, after all, that they might be reconciled? From the bottom of her soul she hoped it. Armand only asked her address, and then moved away, while Adrienne, breathless and trembling, and utterly unnerved, sank down on the seat that he had quitted. All the coldness and pride had gone from her face. A flush of shame dyed it; her lips shook as she tried to speak.Céline de Valtour was frightened at her agitation, but she took it as a hopeful sign."She must love him, to be so moved," she thought."Do not mind, love," she said soothingly. "It is only I who need see him. He will not seek to trouble you, I am sure.""No, I do not fear that," she said, with a shadow of the old proud smile on her pale lips."And, dear one," pleaded Mdlle. de Valtour wistfully, "I would ask you to be patient--to try and think better of your resolution. Armand was very wrong, no doubt; but when are men faultless? You must see for yourself how he is changed, how ill, and careworn, and humbled he looks. You have given him a lesson; it may profit him. He will value you all the more because he has known what it is to lose you. Let me entreat you, for your own sake and the sake of what is coming in the future, to agree to a reconciliation--if he desires it.""He will not desire it," said Adrienne calmly. "I know him better than that.""I am ashamed, for my own sake and for yours, of the insult he has offered you," continued Céline; "but doubtless he has regretted it bitterly long ago. And when you left him you say he did not know of--of this hope?""No," said Adrienne, crimsoning to her very brows."That would make all the difference in the world to him," said Mdlle. de Valtour. "In any case, he must know now. Parental rights in France are strict, and the child will be his heir and successor.""Do not speak of it," cried Adrienne bitterly. "It almost breaks my heart when I think that even of the solace of motherhood I may be deprived. The fate of women is hard. It is easy to see who makes the laws.""But have you considered, dear, that this separation cannot last for ever? It must end one way or the other. Can you find no remnant in your heart of all the love you had, that could plead your husband's cause now?"Adrienne covered her face with her hands. Slow, hot tears rose to her eyes and trickled through her slender fingers."God help me!" she cried despairingly. "I love him still; but when I think of how my love and faith were betrayed I feel that to forgive him, to look upon him as my husband again, is a task beyond my strength."Mdlle. de Valtour was silent. She knew Adrienne was right. The very purity and faithfulness of her womanhood cried out against the treatment she had so unwarrantably received. In her heart Céline could not blame her."I hardly know how to counsel you," she said, at last. "Only, of course, when husband and wife are separated the woman always gets the blame. The world is full of injustice, as you say. And you--well, you are different to most women. Your principles are high and noble. Fidelity to you is not the letter only but the spirit of the word. Yes--it must be hard.""It is hard--it is breaking my heart!" cried Adrienne piteously. "I sometimes hope God will let me die and my child too!""Ah, do not speak like that!" pleaded Mdlle. de Valtour, in terror. "God knows best what we must bear. Do not rashly call upon Him to end your life--hard as it is. Prayers are sometimes granted only to cause regret.""There seems no time, nor any future in which I could feel regret for that prayer being granted," answered Adrienne despairingly, as she lifted her face and looked down the darkening avenue. Then she rose suddenly."It is cold--let us go home," she said, with a faint shiver.The sun had sunk low, the late day had passed to eventide. The dusky sea rolled in slow, monotonous measure at the base of the cliffs. Here and there a star shone out from the dim, gray sky, and the twilight mists lay heavy over the darkening land.With a heavier heart than he had ever known, Armand de Valtour took his way slowly to his sister's house. After all, what use would his visit be? What extenuation had he to offer for his past conduct? He longed with all his heart to see Adrienne again, and yet he dreaded that look in her eyes that had made him feel like a whipped hound in her presence. Forgive him? Was it within the

wildest bounds of probability that she would ever do that?He found himself at the address Céline had given him. He marvelled a little at what had brought them here--why Adrienne had left Valtours.A few moments and he stood in his sister's presence. She was alone. He had hardly expected anything else, but he was half surprised at the keen pang of disappointment he felt on seeing his dread had turned to certainty.Céline received him very coldly.He sat down, and a sort of embarrassed silence fell between them both."Adrienne has told you all?" he said at last."Yes," answered his sister. "Of course I knew you were never worthy of your wife, Armand; but I think you might have had the decency to try and appear so a little longer."For once rebuke came home to him, and he received it without any plea or excuse."I know that," he said; "I have been a brute."Mdlle. de Valtour looked at him with momentary surprise."I think you have," she said presently; "but your punishment is heavy enough. To have lost such love, such honour as Adrienne had for you--well, I wonder what you will find as recompense.""Nothing, I know," he said bitterly, as he leant his

head on his hand to shut his face out from her sight. "I think I must have been mad.""I am glad you acknowledge you were in the fault," said Céline, still coldly. "But what do you intend to do? Is this separation to be life-long?"His hand fell, and he looked at her--a fire of anxious longing in his eyes."Not with my will," he said; "but how can I ask her to forgive? She is so proud. I have wronged her in a way--not perhaps as she thinks--but still she is so pure and good herself that the very shadow of disloyalty is unknown to her.""Tell me all about it," said Mdlle. de Valtour at last. " I suppose it was that horrid woman you never would break with? She was always jealous and malicious. Let me hear your version, then, and pray tell me the truth--no prevarications or deceptions any longer."He drew his chair close up beside her own, and, in the friendly dusk that hid his shamed and sorrowful face, he told her that story of his folly and wrong-doing.She listened in perfect silence from beginning to end. Many a time in his boyish days had he come to her with similar confidences, though never, perhaps, with any so humiliating and painful. When he had finished, when he had told her of the discovery of Zoé's falseness, of Lamboi's treachery, of Madame Lissac's vileness, she felt a little thrill of triumph as she saw how each and all of them had over-reached

their own purposes, and how the shock of their joint-treachery had first awakened Armand's conscience to his own sin against his wife."Will you tell Adrienne--will you plead for me?" he said brokenly, at last, as his story was ended, and the gentle clasp of her hand told of her awakened sympathy."I will do what I can," she answered gravely. "But I cannot promise success. I will go and send her to you now. Tell her your story frankly and bravely as you have done to me. She is a good woman--though proud. I do not know whether she will believe you. In any case it is for you to sue for her pardon. That you know.""To my own most bitter cost!" he answered despairingly.Céline went away. How long the moments seemed! What could detain her? He paced restlessly up and down the room. His heart was beating wildly--his pulses were at fever heat. He could hardly credit that he could feel such keen and painful emotion on account of his wife. A few months before it would have seemed absurd.The sound of a closing door fell on his ear and startled him. He turned swiftly and saw before him a white, shadowy figure. The grave, dark eyes looked coldly, steadily at his face."You wish to speak to me, monsieur," said Adrienne.Her voice sounded cold and strange yet sweet to

his ears. She leaned, as if for support, against a table near by. He could see she was trembling.With a swift, sudden passion of despair, and grief, and longing, he threw himself at her feet.A shiver, as of cold, passed over her. She drew herself away from his touch."I have come to ask your forgiveness," he said humbly. "Only grant me that, and I will go away and never look upon your face again--unless you wish it!"CHAPTER XXVI.AFTER Armand's passionate entreaty a dead silence reigned throughout the room. Adrienne still leaned against the marble table, still looked with cold, proud eyes at the man who had humbled himself before her, as never in all his life he had done before any living woman. For a moment the greatness of her love broke down the barriers of pride; for a moment she pitied the man even more than she blamed the sinner."Will you not speak to me?" he pleaded. "I know I was never worthy of your love. I think no man could be that--but will you never forgive?--"She interrupted him then."It is easy to say I forgive," she said; "but how can I forget? What had I ever done that you should have treated me as you did--that my love, and trust, and belief in you should have been wantonly destroyed?""Your words are just," he said, rising slowly, and looking, with a new and strange regret at the beautiful, averted face. "I have lost all. I do not complain; I have no right. Only I should like you to

know that I have not erred as that letter would make you suppose. The girl was not my mistress. You were inveigled into the house by the malice of a woman whom I thought a friend.""You mean Madame Lissac, of course?""Yes," he said, somewhat confusedly. "Zoé Laurent was a protégée of hers. She had asked my influence to get her an engagement in one of the theatres, and the girl seemed grateful; and I went to her house that once. It was a trap to ruin our happiness. We both fell into it. I know my conduct must look inexcusable. Women judge of these things so differently to men. I have never been a good man, that I know--never worthy of you; but you do not understand the world of to-day, nor the ways of men. Their vagaries and follies are but pastimes for lighter moments. No doubt they look worthless and ignoble in your eyes, but all of love I have ever had has been yours; if I had never known it before, your loss would have taught it me!"All his old persuasive eloquence was at work; the words poured from his lips in rapid, impulsive fashion; but there was a ring of truth in them that went straight to Adrienne's heart and touched it despite the stern teachings of reason.Yet she dared not listen--dared not trust him again. Some of her weight of sorrow was lightened since he had come to plead for her forgiveness, since he had not wholly forgotten her, and turned for consolation to those lighter joys for which she had

been forsaken once. But she shut her ears to his pleading. Her voice fell cold as an ice-spray on his excited feelings."It is easy to talk," she said; "you used all your eloquence once, and I believed you--to my cost. A faith once shaken is never the same. You have torn mine up by the roots. Nothing will ever transplant it.""I know," he answered, and turned away with a heavy sigh. Of course she was right. How could he ever have expected that any plea of his could extenuate his conduct or win her forgiveness?That sigh touched her more than words. A warm flush stole to her cheek--a momentary hesitation trembled in her words."If indeed you mean it, or want it, take my forgiveness with you," she said, more softly. "I shall find peace in time, no doubt. I have suffered greatly; but perhaps you never thought of that. Men--as you say--are so different to women."A great shame and humility came over him as he heard these words; as, looking again at the beautiful face, he saw how all its girlish loveliness and radiance had fled."Good-bye," he said slowly; "I will not trouble you again. I have spoilt your life, that I know. If I told you of my own bitter regrets you would not believe me. Doubtless I look vile and base enough in your eyes. But even a bad man can love, and I love you as I have never loved another woman. It

is too late, of course; I know that I am not worth one of your pure thoughts. Perhaps you will forget me--perhaps time will bring you peace. I have never sacrificed my own wishes or feelings before. Well, I do it now. Never shall I force myself on you again, unless you yourself desire it. But as there is a Heaven above, I will be true to you while life lasts. And now--farewell."Their eyes met. A passion of regret in the one, a great and troubled sadness in the other. He took her hands and touched them with his lips, and then turned away, with no other word, and left her.A moment she stood there, listening to the echoes of his footsteps as they died away in the distance. A moment--then the barriers of pride and coldness fell from her heart--the woman's heart that, despite all outrage and all wrongs, still beat and thrilled with the love of old. A sob broke from her lips. She stretched out her arms with a faint, despairing cry.But he was far beyond hearing now. She threw herself down, and the dusky shadows of the room closed round her, like the shadows of her own life."You have sent him away? You would not, then, forgive?" asked Céline de Valtour a few moments later, as she sought her in the solitude of her own room."I have forgiven him," Adrienne answered, lifting up her colourless face. "But do you think I would ask him to stay?""And he himself expressed no such wish?""I hardly know what he said. He seemed in earnest for once. He told me he would never force himself upon me unless I wished it.""And you?""I said nothing. What could I say? His presence agitates me terribly. I am sorry for him, in a way, but I cannot forget. The thought of his conduct turns me sick with shame when I think of it.""Still an open rupture is a pity," said Mdlle. de Valtour thoughtfully. "And in the future--did you tell him about that?""No; he will hear of it soon enough," answered Adrienne coldly. "Why should I have told him?"Mdlle. de Valtour was silent. She had no thought her young sister would be so cold and proud."I suppose you know best what is for your happiness," she said at last. "Only, dear, believe me there will never come a time when women will not have to make excuses for men. The world and life and nature and everything else are against us. We must be humble, unexacting, dog-like--that is our province. Griselda's patience should be our model, even without her other virtues.""It might be easy to have patience if one had no love," murmured Adrienne. "But a woman has little strength left her then.""You care for Armand still?" asked Céline eagerly."Care? I care for him enough to make forgiveness easy and forgetfulness impossible. To see how blank and desolate his loss makes my life, and yet not enough to call him back and say, 'Only love me once again, and the past shall die for both of us.' I suppose my own self-respect is dearer to me than his love; or am I indeed so changed?""You are changed--certainly," said Céline de Valtour, looking at her very sadly. "But after all, my love, no one passes through life without receiving some such shocks or disappointments. The time of illusions is very short, brief as a woman's youth, or her first love-dream. It is sad that it should be so, but it is a truth stubborn as any fact, undeniable as any of nature's laws. We come into this world without any will of our own; once in it we must bear with its ways and suffer its buffets as philosophically as we can. It seems strange, does it not?--yes, and hard too. But perhaps we shall find our recompense in time to come--in that great hereafter for which our souls so blindly yearn. God knows we need it, even though our deserts are few. Why, child, you are weeping. Nay, that must not be.""Do not trouble," said Adrienne, raising her streaming eyes to the kind and gentle face. "Tears do me good. I have been cold and hard so long. Yes--you are right, our deserts are few. Perhaps I have no right to be so bitter. I am not so good or perfect myself that I can afford to sit in judgment on

the faults of others. And, after all, a woman's love is nothing if it cannot bear with a man's errors. One need not live very long to learn that."CHAPTER XXVII.IT was the late autumn. The old château of Valtours had long been closed and desolate.André Brizeaux had grown accustomed to see it thus, and almost given up longing for the time when the young Countess should be back.He and Maï were married now--had been wedded with all the simple peasant customs and rejoicings that Provence still holds.The girl was very happy, and his own goodness and gentleness to her were unfailing. To say that he also was happy would be untrue. But he was fairly content, and successfully hid his feelings from Maï's eyes, so that by degrees she became accustomed to his sacrifice, and decided that, after all, his life contented him.To his father he was devoted. It seemed to him that no service or sacrifice would be too great to give the old man a moment's happiness; and he still strove after that forlorn hope that he might recognise his son yet, and with his own lips speak forgiveness. But there were times when the green fields and the shining skies, and the rush of soft waters, and songs of hidden birds, awoke the old passionate longings in

his breast--when the thought of what music had meant for him once made his heart ache with vain desires, and he knew that ambition was not laid at rest, but only sleeping. Hard work and bodily labour in some way exorcised such feelings--labour harder than he had ever known, because it was also more distasteful. There were times when a great weight seemed to oppress him, and he seemed to himself to have voluntarily buried the best part of his nature in a grave of eternal despair.It was hard to conquer these feelings--hard to get the better of them--hard to be out on the quiet lonely nights and see the silver moonlight above the dim blue hills, and feel the poetry and beauty and exquisiteness of his past dreams steal softly back to his soul, yet know that they must henceforth have no place there.But to whom is life not hard in some way or another? The strife and warfare, the fret and turmoil of it all are endless as eternity.In some simple, unexpressed way André recognised this fact, and knew that he was not alone in sufferings; felt, too, some dim faint hope in his soul that for him also there would come rest and peace, when the burden and heat of life's long day were over and ended at last.It was quite late in the autumn when news came that the people at the château were about to return.Maï heard it, and told André gleefully one evening as he came back from his work in the fields.He heard her in silence. The romantic adoration of his beautiful chatelaine was but another of those fanciful, impulsive dreams that the prose of daily life would not allow him to indulge in now."The Count--does he return too?" he asked coldly."It is said not," answered Maï, and she flushed a little, and looked away from her young husband's face. "He is not a good man, is he, André? I have thought so often when he used to come and talk to me, and try to make me discontented with my life here, and tell me of Paris and all its beauty and riches.""He did--that?" exclaimed André suddenly, and turned and looked at her with such wrath on his brow and in his eyes as she had never seen before."Yes," she answered timidly; "it was when you were in Paris, and he used to say how changed you were, and how you would forget us, and grow rich, and great, and heartless; and many a time he has pained me sorely by such words: for all that, I would not let him see I believed him. He will see how wrong he was," she added triumphantly, as she linked her arm in André's, and looked up into his eyes with a world of love and pride beaming in her own; "for you did not forget, and you did come back, and you have made me so happy--so happy--

that every night on my knees I bless your name, and the saints that kept me in your memory."His eyes softened as they met that tender, innocent gaze. How she loved him, this girl! It moved him, as it always did, to hear that frank, outspoken, innocent declaration of her feelings--feelings which had been proof against the tempting of evil, or the silence of apparent neglect."You are sure you are happy?" he asked her tenderly, as she leant her little brown head against his breast."Sure! Can you ask it, André?" she said, and smiled up in his face--a smile so radiant, so sweet in its confession of heart-whole, perfect happiness, that words were not needed to confirm its assurance.He bent down and kissed her, and then bade her get him his supper, while he went upstairs. His heart felt heavy within him. He said to himself "The Count de Valtour is a villain!" And as he thought of Adrienne and her sufferings, a fierce, unholy longing grew up in his heart to avenge them on the man who had been so unworthy of her love. Maï's words had roused him to hot anger. Even this little, humble, wayside flower had not been exempt from his polluting influence--had only had the staunchness and fidelity of her great love to keep her pure and unharmed under his vile tempting."If he crossed my path now," he said, and clenched his hand involuntarily as he spoke, while passion and indignation made his brow dark, his eyes fierce. He

did not finish the threat. He only flung himself down and buried his face in his hands. In that moment a horror of himself--of his life--of everything and everyone--was upon him. He groaned aloud and cursed the fate that had made him what he was. It was in moments like these that he felt the full force and suffering of his sacrifice--that he despaired of that content which duty, and the consciousness of doing it, is supposed to bring.With the next day's noon Adrienne and Mdlle. de Valtour arrived at the château. The young Countess was stronger and better, people said, and whispers stole about of the great joy and rejoicing that was soon to be, and among the whispers mingled a marvel that the Count was not here at such a time.André bade his wife go up to the château and see the ladies. He did not go himself. He felt a strange disinclination to see the beautiful object of his buried romance--to hear again the rich sweet music of the voice that could thrill to his heart's core, and waken all the pain and fever and restlessness of the wildest dream a man's soul had ever held.But he wished to hear of her--to know how she looked--whether she had in some measure recovered from the great shock she had received; whether she still grieved and mourned for her faithless husband. It was evening when Maï went, and he walked up later to meet and bring her home."The Countess was certainly stronger and better,"

she told him, "but still she looked very sad and sorrowful. Of her husband she had never spoken. Mdlle. de Valtour asked so kindly after you," continued Maï; "she bade me tell you she would expect to see you soon. I said no doubt you would call when the vintage was over--that you were so busy now.""Yes," said André absently. He was scarcely heeding what she said.Maï prattled on. She had so many things to tell. Of the wonderful preparations for the little heir; of the beautiful presents Madame and Mdlle. de Valtour had brought her; of the charming pretty lady, Madame's friend, who was staying with her, and had worn a dress that was a marvel to look upon; of the exquisite cradle that had been sent from Paris, and was fit for a prince of the blood. All these, and many other things, she spoke of, and André listened with but few comments. He was, in truth, wondering why Adrienne was not reconciled to her husband, and whether she still grieved in that terrible heart-breaking manner of yore over his faults and sins."Do they not speak of M. le Comte at all?" he asked Maï, at length."No," she said. "No one mentioned him. Do you think they have quarrelled, André?""I know he is a brute," answered the young man sternly. "He was never worthy to touch the hem of Madame's garment. She was so pure, so gracious, so good. He--" A contemptuous gesture finished the

sentence. "Do not let us speak of him," he said impatiently.Maï looked at him, a little surprised by his strong emotion."You lived in Paris, too; of course you would know," she said simply. "I am sorry, so sorry, for our beautiful lady. Now that I know what it is to be happy myself, I can feel for all she suffers and has lost."He drew her hand within his arm, and smiled down on her with a tender, wistful smile."I am happier than she," sighed little Maï, as they went slowly on through the silvery evening light, and under the boughs and shadows of the laden vines."I think you are," he answered.Meanwhile, at the château, Madame Odylle and Adrienne were sitting in the boudoir of the latter, and discussing the recent visit of little Maï."To think of Orpheus returning to the ploughshare," laughed the Marquise: "Were you not disappointed, chérie?""I was, indeed," said Adrienne gravely. "I do not think it was wise of him. I am sure he is not happy.""He has not been happy for a very long time," said the little Marquise, with I quick glance at the fair, serious face before her. "I hardly suppose matrimony will make him so.""He and Maï have always loved each other," said Adrienne, looking at her in surprise. "Certainly we

did not ever think they were quite suited, but lately, when André came from Paris, he seemed bent on marrying her. I suppose he thought it right. The girl seems happy enough, do you not think so?""Yes; but there has been no sacrifice on her part, and I suppose she loved him always.""Do you fancy he has changed to her?" asked Adrienne, with surprise."I have heard of the desire of the moth for the star," answered Madame Odylle sententiously. "From my short experience of the young man, I should say he most certainly had.""I do not understand you.""No, dear one, I am quite sure of that. So much the better. You did not see so much of your protégé in Paris as I did.""Was there someone in Paris, then? I suppose, like all men, he could not be constant to the absent."And Adrienne sighed wearily, while her friend wondered a little impatiently whether any woman had ever yet been so wilfully blind, or so utterly free from vanity."Someone in Paris!" she echoed thoughtfully. "Of course there was. Not that it matters much now. I wonder what it feels like, that doing one's duty for duty's sake? You high-principled people always seem to me to be so unhappy. I cannot fancy you find it a satisfactory performance."A little sad smile played round Adrienne's mouth."Perhaps not," she said. "Only there are some natures on which the weight of moral obligation presses so heavily that they cannot shake it off. Principle and conscience are monitors no sophistry will stifle, no reasoning will silence. I do not suppose they enjoy life half so well as those whose natures are more easily satisfied. No beguilement of the senses can be possible to the over-sensitive, for brighter and clearer than the fire of temptation burns the star of virtue, and louder than the voice of any tempter is the 'still small voice' within their own breasts.""Yes, and to pursue your metaphor further, the starlight that shines upon their souls becomes a fire of torture--the voice whose whispers cannot be stilled, a trumpet of discord that maddens them with its deafening echoes. That at least has been my experience.""In your own case?" asked Adrienne."Pardieu, no! I am not a bit exaltée, nor given to heroics. I like the sweets of life as one finds them. I would not put them aside and take voluntarily to all the sours and disagreeables simply because the one was a little wrong, the other decidedly right. After all, though you are years younger than myself, you have not had half as much fun and enjoyment out of life. Is it not so?""I suppose it is," said Adrienne quietly. "You see youth is so much a matter of temperament, it has not to do with one's actual years. The things that

please you never did and never could please me. I suppose the fault lies with myself.""Of course it does," answered Madame Odylle, with a shrug of her shoulders. "I married young; so did you. I found matrimony a mistake; so have you. But, all the same, I would not lead a nun's life, or break my heart over a man's faithlessness. There are a hundred other consolations always at hand. You can make a career for yourself. You can be celebrated by reason of your beauty, or great by reason of your mind, or famous by reason of your political principles, or a success, by virtue of your own brilliance and loveliness, and envied by all women, and courted by all men, simply because you wish to be so. Have none of these things a charm for you?""None.""Then, frankly, I must tell you that you are the very oddest woman I ever met.""You have said the same thing in different words many and many a time.""Possibly I have. You see, dear, it seems hard to me that you should throw your life away at its very outset only for want of a little common sense.""You speak as if I had acted voluntarily. You forget why my life is thrown away, as you call it.""No; I do not forget. I remember very well. In your place I should never have acted as you did. To be the reigning beauty and queen of Paris one day; the next to throw yourself away on such

a life as this, and bury your youth in voluntary exile!""Why go over that old ground again, Odylle? I thought we had agreed to discuss the matter no more.""I am always forgetting that promise. It tries my patience more than I can say to see you exiled in this fashion.""It is an exile I prefer to the frivolity and folly of the world you profess to adore.""That is just your odd way of looking at things. I cannot understand it myself. Nothing would induce me to bury myself from the world. I simply could not live without its excitements and pleasures.""And when you come to die?" asked Adrienne gravely."To die! Quelle idée! Don't say such terrible things! Of course, long before that I shall have given up the world. We always turn devout after thirty.""Oh, hush, Odylle! One would think life was to be measured by our own convenience, suited to our own will. How can you tell, or any one, how long of how short our days are to be? They are in God's hands.""How you rebuke one, Adrienne!" said the little

Marquise, almost humbly. "How grand you are, and how good! Perhaps, after all, you are right. You are not suited to the world nor it to you.""I knew that--long ago," sighed Adrienne wearily.CHAPTER XXVIII.IT was a dark autumn evening-chill, gloomy, depressing. The breath of coming winter seemed to weigh on the air; a fierce wind blew over the hills and drove the rain in sheets before it.Coming home through the cold wet fields, with the blackness of the shadows closing round him, André Brizeaux thought lovingly of his comfortable home and bright fire, and the sweet, warm welcome of Maï's loving arms and kiss.Physically, he suffered less in his daily labours and the monotonous round of unwelcome tasks than he had expected; more especially when bodily fatigue weighed on his frame, and so dulled the whispers of ambition, the tempting of discontent. To-night he was eager to be home. He had been out since sunrise, and the chill and cold struck to his bones as he hurried on through the autumn dusk.Maï was waiting for him, as he had imagined; but her welcome was hurried, her eyes looked anxious and affrighted."A messenger has come for you from the château," she said eagerly. "Mademoiselle wishes you to go there at once. There is some bad news, they say.""Bad news!--of whom?" he cried, almost in terror.

The thought of Adrienne flashed across his mind. Had anything happened to her?"I cannot tell you more," said Maï, still clinging to him. "They would not say what--only that you must go. You are to ask for Mademoiselle."He put her hands aside, and took up his hat in a sort of dazed way. Maï followed him to the door."Will you not take some food first?" she said.He shook his head. His brain felt confused--he could find no words. The dread that had fallen upon his heart rested there like a dull dead weight. He only felt he must know if she was safe--was well.How he reached the château he never knew. Mechanically his feet found their way, and fear winged his steps to swiftest speed."Mademoiselle desires me," he said to the servants who gave him admittance. "Tell her I am here."They showed him into a little room dimly lit, and furnished like a library. Here Céline de Valtour came to him. He started when he saw her. Her cheeks and lips were blanched, her eyes looked wild and anxious."You have come--oh, how glad I am!" she said breathlessly, seizing the young man's hands in unconquerable agitation. "I did not know what to do, to whom to send. Read this!"She thrust a paper into his hand, but though he gazed at it he could not at first see its words or take in its meaning. At last, gropingly, dimly, the sense of it came home to him.These were the words he read:--"The Count of Valtours has met with an accident in making the ascent of the Matterhorn. He lies at Zermatt Hotel in great danger. Can some friend come at once?"André Brizeaux looked up at Mdlle. de Valtour's agitated face, and an intense relief came into his own. The dread of the last half hour left him. His heart seemed to leap and throb gratefully. She was safe after all."I dare not tell his wife," cried Céline de Valtour distractedly. "Since that telegram came I have been in agony. If Adrienne knew he was ill--dying perhaps--she would go frantic--nothing would keep her from his side. As for myself, I cannot leave her--I dare not; and who can I ask to go? I know none of my brother's friends, save Mons. Lamboi, and he had a quarrel with him. André, can you guess why I sent for you? Is it too much to ask of you to travel to Switzerland to see how he is--to send me word from time to time; to let him see one face from the old home beside him, as he lies ill and desolate in a strange place, tended only by strange hands!"André stood there quite silent. She little knew what a hard thing she had asked of him. He could count by hours the time since he had paced his chamber with clenched hands, and murderous thoughts in his heart of this very man whom he was asked to help. What was Armand de Valtour to him, he thought bitterly? He had cheated him with false

promises, left him to starve or die in Paris, while his lips had been breathing dishonourable temptings in Maï's pure ears, and he had degraded and deceived his own wife."I have no right to ask this of you," continued Mdlle. de Valtour, noting his hesitation with pained surprise. "But I thought, having known us all from your boyhood, and being attached to the countess and--"He made an abrupt gesture; a flush rose to his brow."I will go," he said simply.He would rather she had asked him to end his own life. But Adrienne's name, and the thought of Adrienne's happiness, were more potent than any argument she could have used.Céline de Valtour, looking at his changed face, saw how haggard and careworn it was, and how all its bright youth and grace seemed to have fled for ever. A throb of pity stirred her kind heart. Involuntarily she stretched out her hand to him."Thank you, André," she said gently. "You have, indeed, rendered us a service we can never forget."Then she proceeded to give him instructions for his journey. He was to set out that night within an hour. Of Maï neither of them seemed to think. A paramount interest condemned her to forgetfulness for a time. Mdlle. de Valtour had refreshments brought to the young man, and herself made all the prepara-

tions for his journey, supplying him with warm rugs, and overcoat, and books to read during the long hours of railway travelling he would have. The route was clearly laid down; her simple directions explained all else. The carriage bore him to the station, and the midnight express found him speeding along in it to the side of the man whom he hated as a foe and despised as a coward.Like one in a dream André Brizeaux watched the changing landscapes, heard the unfamiliar voices, changed from train to train, from diligence to diligence, saw tumbling torrents and vast forests and mighty mountains, and endured all the discomforts of long delays and bad management. At last Zermatt was reached, that heart and home of mountain climbers, that resting-place of records dread and daring. Towering far above all its surrounding neighbours, as if in majestic disdain of their own stupendous altitudes, he saw the Matterhorn rear its black and sterile crown.Far above the line of eternal snow, august in its isolation, awful in its gloom, the monarch of mountains met the young Provençal's amazed and awe-filled eyes.He had never dreamt of or imagined anything like it.He watched it with breathless awe, with speechless lips. The glory of the sunset was flashing over its snow-covered companions. Piled up against the deep, exquisite blue of the sky was a confusion of

shapes and forms. Everywhere was the intense white of eternal snows, or the glittering flash of glaciers, or the pale green waters and silvery foam of cascades leaping from height to height or rushing down deep declivities, in scorn of all impediments of Nature or of man.There was nothing puny or trivial. All other scenes and places seemed dwarfed into insignificance by the grandeur and mystery of scenes where brooded the isolation and the silence of an unending solitude--the awe and majesty of Creation's mightiest achievements.André inquired his way to the Hotel Monte Rosa, and walked swiftly along through the queer little straggling street and among the odd little chalets that looked like Swiss toys set here and there.With some difficulty he made it understood at the hotel who it was he wished to see. The manager came at last, and shook his head gravely as he spoke of the Count. The accident had been terrible. Armand de Valtour and a party of tourists had gone up one of the most difficult ascents of the great mountain. The party had gradually dropped off and given up--all except the Count, who, with one guide, had persisted in extending his exploration. The guide was some distance ahead when he heard a cry, and looking back saw his companion slipping backward down the deep declivity they had been ascending. The Count clutched at the sides of the rocks,

but could not stop himself, and was whirled down in a series of bounds over ice and snow till he reached a sort of gully on the verge of a precipice. Here he managed to stay his progress, and bleeding and exhausted he lay there for hours until the guide had procured assistance, and, by means of ropes and ladders, he was rescued from his perilous situation. His head was severely cut; he was bruised all over and his right knee was dislocated.How he had escaped with life seemed a miracle.Fortunately, medical attendance had been at hand in the hotel, but the doctor entertained very grave fears respecting his safety. Fever had set in now, and for days he had been delirious. The landlord, of course, made profuse assurances of the devotion and attention monsieur had received, and concluded his narrative by a warm welcome to the friend of monsieur, who, doubtless, would take some of the responsibility off their hands.All this André listened to with grave coldness. When he was led to the Count's room he found him quite unconscious. His head was bandaged with linen cloths; his face looked ghastly. From time to time his lips moved, and incoherent sentences would drop from his tongue. A momentary feeling of compassion stirred André's heart at the melancholy sight. To lie here, friendless, uncared for, alone--he who had been the spoiled darling of fashion, the idol of so many women's hearts. Was not his fate strange, even though well deserved?Everything about the room, and even the sick man's position in the bed, had that comfortless, neglectful look which tells of hireling hands and careless attention. André did his best to arrange the pillows more comfortably, and place the light out of the sight of those wild and wandering eyes. Then he sat himself down to wait for the evening visit of the doctor--a physician of celebrity, who was staying in the hotel, and who, the landlord informed him, came always twice a day to see his patient.It seemed an odd thing to the young Provençal to be sitting there by the side of the only man he had ever hated as an enemy. To know that in this hour of danger and helplessness he was the only one of all those whom Armand de Valtour had known and loved, and befriended and deceived, who was near at hand and ready to be of service. Only a few days before he had felt he could kill this man with scarce a pang of remorse.Now he saw him lying weak and helpless as a child, more utterly at his mercy than his wildest dreams could have supposed.He sat there silent and absorbed. The events of the last two days had been so rapid and confused that he seemed to have had no time for clear thought. With a sudden pang he remembered Maï, and how she would be distressing herself at his absence. He ought to write to her at once. Doubtless Mdlle. de Valtour had told her of his journey and its cause, but she would be anxious till she heard. He went over to

the table by the window, where paper and pens lay ready. He wrote two letters--one to his wife, one to Céline de Valtour. In the latter he gave full details of the accident, and described the Count's serious condition. He had hardly finished it when the doctor was announced.He looked critically at André, asked a few questions, felt the pulse of his patient, and pronounced the fever to be abating."Do you stay beside him to-night?" he asked the young Provençal."Yes, certainly. I suppose he needs watching.""The violent paroxysms of the fever are over--he will be weak and exhausted. Doubtless, he will sleep to-night. He has been unable to do that hitherto. You know him, I suppose?"André coloured. "I am the tenant of one of his farms," he said.The doctor looked scrutinisingly at the slight, handsome figure, the delicate face with its perfect features and colouring."You do not look very strong," he said. "You will find it tedious work nursing, and it will be long before he can get about. Even then he will be lame for the rest of his life."He then proceeded to give André the various instructions as to medicine and nourishment, and so left him to the first experience of his unpleasant task. The young Provençal concluded his letter to Mdlle. de Valtour with a more hopeful account of the Count's

condition, then despatched his missives to the post, and took his seat by the window to indulge his eyes and thoughts with the lovely view before him. How beautiful it all was! The full moon shone over the silvered snow of the mountains, the little quaint houses, the valley, with its tumbling torrent, and wild rock, and great pine trees. The music of the foaming waters reached his ears and made him grow restless and ill at ease, cramped here between four walls instead of breathing the freedom and beauty of the mountain air.His heart grew heavy within him.There is neither man nor woman to whom the loveliness of nature is without pain, save they are very young or perfectly heart-whole. The beauty and wonder of it all may thrill their souls for a brief space, but then will come the memory of one who might have stood by their side and looked on it with eyes that answered to the wonder and delight of their own; of lips that might have spoken tender words; of a heart that would understand without explanation. But where all that sweetness of perfect sympathy is wanting, and life has only memories and regrets, what can they do save turn away with tear-dimmed eyes and aching hearts, and feel that forgetfulness is after all the only boon they desire--the one blessing the world cannot give.Strange mystery of human life that never finds content when isolated or alone, that yearns and yearns through all joys, and miseries, and disappoint-

merits, for an answer from another life, the sympathy of another heart. The woes and sins of earth are so many; the passions and follies of life so great, and who has sight keen enough to read the glories that the future veils with impenetrable mystery?Only those whose faith is surer than any hope of happiness; who from life expect nothing, and from death--all!How long André sat there by that window he never knew. It seemed as if in those moments all the events of his past life passed in succession before his eyes; all the innocent happy dreams of youth; the intoxication of success as it had flashed before him when the white roses from a woman's breast were thrown at his feet, and he raised his eyes and saw the beauty that had filled his heart with unrest and madness ever since.The laurels had faded now; his own hands had cast them from him. To-night, looking at all the loveliness around him, he felt the old stifled pain throb in his breast once more. He knew that he might have done much, and now he could do nothing. His flight was checked--his wings were broken; the dullness and dreariness of commonplace were all he could look forward to. But that strange adoring worship of a woman, who had ever seemed to him as an angel, still remained in his heart; was perhaps all the sweeter to him because it alone, of all his dreams, might live, though only in the secrecy of imagining--

the thoughts of some such hour as this. "She will never know," he thought to himself. "Never; and it can do her no harm; and to me--well, it is in my life and of it. I shall never forget."In some simple way it looked to him like a religion, this worship; it held no throb of earthly passion, no thought of earthly desire, no hope of possible fulfilment; but all the same, apart and above all other feelings of his nature--beyond all other interests of his life--this worship reigned in the purity of its exaltation; its sufferings, its impracticability--its madness only made it all the more enduring.Chroniclers never tell us of the long existence of happy loves. It is always those that are wild as despair, vague as fancy, hopeless as death, that live and burn, and fire the poetry and prose of human genius, that symbolise the mystery and endurance of the one human passion that is fixed as fate, and deathless as eternity.André Brizeaux, for all that he was a peasant-born lad, and had seen but little of life as the world counts it, yet felt this truth in his heart; as, indeed, all natures that are in any way gifted, or ardent, or imaginative feel it.With the stillness and sorcery of such a night as this, with the beauty that no dreams had ever foreshadowed before his eyes, he was a different being to the man who plodded after his oxen, or tended his

vines, or bargained at the market-stalls. But he was not one whit a happier man than he knew.A restless movement from the bed attracted his attention at this moment. He rose quickly and crossed the room, and bent over the helpless figure lying there. Armand de Valtour's eyes, languid, lustreless, but conscious at last, looked up and met that gaze of the man he had wronged. A great wonder--almost a fear crept into their dull and weary depths."André--you!" the pale lips murmured. "How came you here?"The sound of that voice, weak as it was, roused the old dislike and disgust in André Brizeaux's breast."You were in danger. There was no one else," he answered abruptly.Armand groaned aloud. Bodily pain asserted itself once more now the haze of unconsciousness had left his brain more clear."My wife--does she know?" he asked feebly."No, monsieur," said the young Provençal coldly."It is well," Armand de Valtour muttered below his breath. "André--I am dying. I feel it. Dying--God forgive me, with all my sins heavy on my soul, with the longing for my wife's forgiveness burning in my heart! It is just--I am rightly punished--I--"His voice failed.White, and still, and senseless, he fell back on the pillows, while André's cry of alarm rang through the room.CHAPTER XXIX.HELP was soon at hand, and restoratives administered to the sinking man. He seemed completely exhausted, and had not strength to speak again all through those long night hours when André watched by his side with untiring patience.The doctor looked very grave when he paid his morning visit. There was greater weakness than he had expected, he said, and, although the wounds were doing well, the system did not seem inclined to rally as it ought to do."He will need the greatest care and attention," he said, looking critically at the young man. "I will send a woman in to help nursing. You don't look strong yourself. You will need rest and sleep.""I am quite strong," answered André. "I will do all you tell me. Ought Monsieur le Comte's relatives be informed that he is in such danger?""Has he a wife?" inquired the doctor."Yes; but she is in delicate health, and monsieur's sister, who received your telegram, feared to tell her of the accident.""Then tell his sister. She, of course, must use her own judgment. Of course the Count may rally--it is not impossible--only the chances at present are

against it. The shock to the system has been very great."Then he gave some more instructions and left, promising to look in early in the evening. All through the bright, sunny hours of that day did André Briseaux sit there beside the half-conscious man. It was a hard task to him, and one new to all his previous experience. He felt stifled in that close room--he longed to be breathing the free, fresh coolness of the mountain air, with the blue sky above his head and the majesty of that mystic snow-world about his feet. But he never shrank from his task. He was patient, watchful, alert. In some dim way Armand de Valtour seemed to know he was there by his side. Once he stretched out his feeble hand and took that of the young Provençal's."You are very good to me," he whispered faintly.André smiled bitterly. "Good to him!" It was an odd goodness, truly, that could have witnessed his death with perfect indifference--yet strove with untiring patience to preserve his life."After all, he is not fit to die," he muttered to himself. "And she--well, she would grieve. I suppose some day she will forgive him, and he may perhaps repent, and then they will be happy once more. Besides, I told her once that I devoted my life to her service; one day she may thank me for saving his."He looked at the helpless figure lying back so wearily on the pillows. He remembered him in the

flush and vigour of manhood--the idol of fashion, the beloved of women, more especially of that one woman whose life his perfidy had wrecked. He thought of that long career of selfishness--the forgetfulness of faith and honour which had so characterised his actions; and only a great coldness and contempt were in his heart.It was sheer, stern duty that kept him by this man's side; that, and the memory of the vow he had once made; the fancy that in some simple, unobtrusive way he was serving Adrienne, was paving the way for a return of her past happiness, by the sacrifice of his own comfort, the disregard of his own feelings.It was nightfall when the woman came who was to assist him. She was a sister from a convent near St. Nicholas--an old, sad-looking, grim-faced woman, and very silent. André could understand her as little as she could him, but he was relieved to have some respite from his duties; and leaving her in charge, he went out into the quaint little village he had been longing to see.But amid all the peace and beauty of the night his restless thoughts followed him. When he stood on the bridge and looked down at the rushing waters, he thought less of them than of the strange fate that had sent him here, and the beautiful sad-faced woman who was to his life what the sun is to the earth--what his fancies are to the poet--his dreams to the artist.It was a strange fantasy, this feeling of his. Unlike

love, because it was too pure for passion; unlike religion, because it was based on an earthly idol, yet combining the tenderness and fidelity of the one with the reverence and adoration of the other. It is given to few men to feel like this--few women to inspire such a feeling. The world would view it with contempt, or decline to believe in its possibility.Alas! for these days of realism, when every fantastic myth and beautiful fancy and half-divine dream are banished from human hearts as ridiculous and childish things, at which reason mocks and society scoffs; when genius is no longer simple and soul-felt, but lives for the patronage of modern civilisation, or the triumphs that sensation has marked out as its own!From the memory of his divinity, André's thoughts turned to Maï. If love could beget love, and the pure, undivided worship of one heart arouse an equal worship, enforce an answering passion in another, André ought indeed to have loved his wife.He did love her, in a way--loved her with tenderness and admiration for her unselfish life and patient brave little spirit. But, as in all artists, if they be worth the name, there is also something of the poet, so in his soul, and apart from the life he had voluntarily chosen, lived feelings she could never share--thoughts she could never understand--vague, fantastic, imaginative dreams that were sweeter to him than riches or triumphs or worldly honours, and that, in moments like these, swept over his soul as a

mountain torrent leaps from the frozen bonds that hold it, to meet the warmth of summer sunshine.It was midnight before he went back to the hotel. He was wearied in body and mind, and sought his couch with a certain sense of relief. The Count was sleeping quietly. The doctor had pronounced him better. Reassured by the information, André closed his own eyes, and, for the first time since he had left Valtours, tasted the blessing of deep refreshing slumber.Meanwhile Céline de Valtour was in an agony of suspense. When André's letter arrived, speaking of Armand's danger and critical position, her first thought was to fly to his side and there remain. The counsels of prudence and the entreaties of the Marquise de Savigny alone withheld her."Figure to yourself what it will be," cried Madame Odylle, in agony. "Adrienne will hear--will rush to the conclusion that he is dying; will, in all probability, forget and forgive all she has suffered at his hands, and insist on flying to his side also. In her condition what will be the result? It needs not words to paint it. On the other hand, he may recover. Other people have done so: dislocated joints, and bruised heads, and even fever, don't always mean death. Do I seem heartless? You know I am not that. I only advise for the best, and Adrienne's life is too precious to be recklessly sacrificed.""Suppose she should blame us afterward?"The Marquise shrugged her pretty shoulders."Suppose--what is the use of supposing? It is just going half-way on the road to meet the troubles that Fate is only too fond of sending. No, no, dear--wait. That is what I counsel. You see that André says in his letter your brother is well cared for--has the best medical advice. What more can be done? There is but a month, and Adrienne will be a mother. You cannot risk her life and her child's without far greater cause than this letter gives."Mdlle. de Valtour could not but agree."Still," she said, "if Adrienne should blame us--if in any time to come--""Chut!" interrupted the little Marquise impatiently, "Armand will not die. I am sure of that. Set your mind at rest on that point--at least, wait for further confirmation of our fears, and try to banish that anxious look from your face. Adrienne will be noticing it, and demanding an explanation.""I am not a good hand at playing the hypocrite," said Céline de Valtour sadly."You ought to be, you are a woman," laughed the little Marquise. "They say it comes easy enough to most of us. Ma foi! life would save us many an ill turn if it didn't.""What are you two talking about?" said Adrienne's voice at this moment. She had entered the room at the conclusion of that last sentence.Céline de Valtour started nervously. The Marquise, true to her recently expressed sentiments, only 

laughed a little, and pushed a chair forward for her friend."I believe we were discussing the misfortunes of our own sex," she said demurely. "Nature is against us--men are hard upon us--society is pitiless to our weaknesses; and candid to a fault respecting our failures. We have to combat all these disadvantages by the weapons of tact or dissimulation. The world preaches to us but one gospel--self-advantage. We learn to accept and be grateful for it, in time.""I often wonder you can put up with so long and dreary an absence from that 'world' whose philosophy you so untiringly preach," said Adrienne, smiling languidly. "Are you not pining to return to it?""Do you wish to get rid of me? or am I to understand that my sacrifice at the shrine of friendship is regarded as worthless?" asked little Madame Odylle ironically."Neither," answered her friend, amused at the mock theatrical air she had assumed. "You have done me more good, I think, than even the sea-breezes. But it must be very dull for you here. I cannot forget how you used to abuse Valtours once.""Oh, I have changed," said the Marquise airily. "Besides, country life is good for one's complexion. I don't go in much for Pivet, still there are occasions when he becomes needful. I am cultivating lilies and roses au naturel. The process is dull, but satisfactory.""It is more than good of you to stay with me,

said Adrienne earnestly. "However lightly you treat the matter I cannot but feel it is a sacrifice.""Sacrifice! Quelle idée!" answered the Marquise, throwing herself suddenly down by her friend's side, and taking the slender white hands in her own. "Let us change the subject. How do you feel to-day? Better and stronger, I hope. You look much more like your old self than I have seen you for long.""I feel very well," said Adrienne calmly. "I am glad, after all, I went away. It certainly did me good.""How odd it was--that meeting with your husband," said Madame Odylle musingly. She had heard about it long before from Mdlle. de Valtour. "Like a scene in a drama at the Porte St. Martin. I wonder you could be so obdurate, ma chère, for you care for him a great deal even now, and you know that he did not err as you had supposed. After all, Zoé Laurent was only Lamboi's mistress. As for Madame Lissac, she was a bad woman always, and unscrupulous. She separated your husband and yourself just out of revenge. All Paris knows she wanted to marry him herself.""Yes, I know all that now," answered Adrienne sadly. "But though Armand may not have sinned in the letter, he has been faithless in the spirit. If he had been what I thought he was--if he had loved me as I thought he did--such conduct would not have been possible on his part.""But that is just where I find you in fault," said

the Marquise eagerly. "You thought him something quite different to what he was. Men are but fallible beings like ourselves, more easily tempted and led astray even than we are, I think. I should never dream of exalting one into a hero or a demi-god. There are no Sir Galahads now, my dear, though for the matter of that there are plenty of Lancelots.""Yes, one learns one's mistake soon enough," sighed Adrienne."I wish you would tell me candidly whether you have not one little bit of love still in your heart for your husband," said Madame Odylle coaxingly. "You are not always going to sit in judgment on him in this severe fashion, are you?"Adrienne coloured hotly. "You ask a difficult question," she said. "I told him I forgave him; it is the forgetting I find so difficult.""But a forgiveness that sends him out to banishment, and condemns you to solitude and unhappiness, is rather a poor sort of thing at best."Adrienne sighed heavily."And you have not even told him of what is coming," continued her friend. "I think he would be a changed man--once he knew. Do you not intend to do so?""Not till it is over," answered Adrienne, with a warm blush flitting to her cheeks."Do you fear his return once he heard of it?""No," she said, raising her head proudly. "He

said only my wish as well as my full forgiveness would occasion that.""How nice to be able to bring a man down on his knees like that!" exclaimed the little Marquise comically. "Ma foi, I wish I had your secret. My poor old Lothario would be the better of such a lesson. It is I who have had to condone and forgive for very peace and quietness' sake! But, then, you do not care for scandal, or position either for that matter?""I do, in a way," answered Adrienne. "But there is something I care for more; it is my own self-respect.""Now you are mounting your stilts again. My dear, when will you learn that goodness may be as faulty in its way as evil. It disheartens ordinary mortals, and condemns slight faults as heavy sins. You have learned your power. You have brought your husband to his senses. In the name of wonder why did you banish him again? You only throw him back on the temptations that have ruined your peace of mind already. To my thinking, it would have been more wifely, more Christian-like, to have acted up to your forgiveness and received him back once more. It is not often a man like Monsieur de Valtour will acknowledge himself in the wrong or sue for pardon."She stopped abruptly. Adrienne was sobbing as if her heart would break."Dearest what is it? Have I offended you,

distressed you? Pardon; indeed I did not mean to--""Oh, Odylle!" cried her friend, between her bitter sobs; "you cannot plead half so eloquently as my own heart does. You cannot say more for my husband than I do for the father of my child. But--""Hush, hush! do not agitate yourself thus," cried the little Marquise in alarm. "I did not mean to distress you. I only thought it would be best to have him here with you once more--to try and forget, even as you say you have forgiven. You have suffered much, I know. One only needs to look at your face to see that. But I do not think you will have to complain again. Armand will value you doubly once he has known what it is to lose you."They were nearly the same words that Madame Lissac had used. Probably experience had taught the same lesson to both women, though in different ways.Adrienne was silent, save for a sob that now and then shook her frame as she leant heavily against the warmly beating heart of her friend."You are a strange girl," continued the Marquise presently. Now, I would wager anything that if you heard Armand was ill, in danger, or in trouble of any sort, you would rush to his side immediately--that--""Why do you say that?" interrupted Adrienne, hastily drawing herself away from her friend's arms,

and looking searchingly at the bright riante face. "Have you heard anything? Do you know--""Now, don't be foolish and excite yourself," answered the little Marquise, drawing her head back to its old place, and glad of that excuse to escape those eager, searching eyes. "Heard anything! What should I hear? You don't suspect me of corresponding with your husband, I hope. I am only dealing in suppositions. Answer them to please me. Do not jump at wrong conclusions.""I would certainly go to his side if he were sick, or in trouble, or needed me," said Adrienne quietly. "It would be my duty.""Sublime!" laughed Madame Odylle mockingly. "Just what I expected. If Armand only knew that, I expect he would lose no time in breaking his neck, or catching a fever, or doing some other rash or daring deed, like a hero of modern romance in a novel. I can imagine you rushing off to his side at express speed then. My dear, what a pity it is that you were born in this age. There is no romance, and no poetry, and no beauty in life now, and love is only a mistake!""I wonder what you mean?" said Adrienne, looking searchingly at her. "You are sure you have not heard anything?"Madame Odylle tried her best to laugh and look at ease, but it was a difficult matter."Heard! What should I have heard?" she said lightly. "Never think twice of the things I rattle

out, ma chère. You ought to know by this time that I never think first and speak afterward, as you admirable English people generally do. Come, you look tired. Will you not lie down a little while in your boudoir? We have a long drive after breakfast, you know.""Yes; I am tired," sighed Adrienne, and leaning on her friend's arm, she sought the solitude and quiet of her own room."I was quite right," said the little Marquise, meeting Mdlle. de Valtour on the terrace some half-hour later. "If she knew of Monsieur de Valtour's illness she would fly to his side at once. The question is, ought we to risk telling her and then exert our influence to keep her here, or leave her in ignorance of what has happened until--""Until what?" asked Céline de Valtour eagerly."Until Fate decides the issue--I was about to say. How hard it is to know what is best!""To-morrow we shall hear from André again," said Mdlle. de Valtour. "If his account is more hopeful we will not distress Adrienne or add to her sufferings and anxieties. If not--"There was a moment's silence. They looked at each other--with faces grave and anxious. Without further words they understood what must happen then.CHAPTER XXX."ANDRÉ," said a faint voice.The young Provençal started. He was sitting by Armand de Valtour's bed, lost in a reverie.It was the third day of his attendance on the sick man."Yes, monsieur," he said quietly, and rose at once and bent over the helpless figure."I am better to-night," said Armand de Valtour faintly. "After all, God seems kinder to me than I deserve. What does the doctor say? Does he think I shall recover?""Assuredly, monsieur, with care and attention.""Tell me why you came here. It was very good of you.""You are forbidden to speak, monsieur," said the young man evasively. "Remember, you are still very weak.""But I can listen. I long for some news of home. Tell me all about them, André."It seemed odd to the young Provençal to be addressed humbly, almost entreatingly, by the man who had treated him with insolent disregard for so long a time. But his instinctive dislike to the Count

was discernible in his cold voice--his averted face, as he complied with his request."Mdlle. de Valtour was in great alarm when she heard of your accident, monsieur," he said; "she knew not what to do at first. She dared not tell the Countess in her present delicate state. There was no one whom she could think of to send to you. At last she thought of me. To please Mademoiselle and Madame I would do anything that lies in my power. I came at once, and, travelling with all speed, reached you just three days ago. That is all.""It was kind of you, indeed," said Armand de Valtour feebly. "But two things puzzle me. You were to have gone to Italy by this time. What has changed your plans? And you speak of my wife being in delicate health. What is the matter? There is nothing serious, I hope.""Is it possible you do not know?" exclaimed André."Know what?""The reason of Madame's indisposition. They say she will be a mother soon. But surely you knew that?"His face had grown very white--his voice sounded harsh and constrained. Armand sprang up in the bed from sheer amazement at the unexpected news, then, faint and exhausted, sank back again on the pillows."I fear I am but a bad nurse," said André, in alarm, as he administered a restorative to him. "I should

not have told you anything that would excite you thus. But of course I thought you knew.""No, I did not know," gasped Armand de Valtour; "I can scarcely credit it. A child--my child! Oh! Heaven, I thank thee! Perhaps I may win forgiveness at last."He thought of Adrienne in her beauty and her youth--thought of her crowned with the glory of motherhood--the sweet Heaven-sent joy that her child's smile and touch would bring to her heart. A great remorse and a great horror of himself filled his own, as he thought of the wrongs she had borne from him, the scandal of his past conduct. Pure and guiltless she had been; faithful in word and deed, loving and tender despite all coldness and neglect, while he had only gone on from sin to sin, and stung her pride and purity by an outrage too gross to be overlooked or even pardoned. For, with all his sophistries and excuses, he knew that he had sinned in intention if not in actual deed--he had never been worthy of Adrienne for one single moment. Fickle, disloyal, selfish, tyrannical, so he saw himself at last, and the sight was so odious that he hid his face from sight and groaned aloud.André watched him with anxiety."Do you feel ill, monsieur? Can I do anything for you?" he asked."No," answered Armand de Valtour, turning away and burying his shamed and sorrowful eyes in the pillows; "no one can do anything for me now."The humiliation and anguish of that moment were feelings he had never known in all his facile, careless, pleasure-loving life. He saw himself as he was, in that complete mental isolation, which only comes to human souls in the bitterness of a great grief, or the agony of a great remorse.Both of these were with him now, and would be with him through many a day and night to come."Is it my fault, or the world's?" he thought, lying there in the weariness of convalescence, and seeing ever before him the long array of his own faults and follies, his own caprices and sins. His heart grew bitter and ashamed.He took a strange, unaccountable fancy to André Brizeaux. He could not bear him out of his sight. It was wearisome and irksome to the young peasant, this constant demand on his attention, this fretful discontent at his absence. But having once set himself the task, he went through it manfully: its very distastefulness only made it assume the right of a duty.He wrote daily to Valtours with accounts of Armand's returning strength, and from the answers received by Armand and himself he knew that Adrienne was still in ignorance of her husband's illness.A day came at last when the Count de Valtour was able to leave his bed and lie on a couch by the window. But it was a day that turned the hopefulness of recovery to a painful despair, for the doctor

announced to him that he would be lame for life--the injury to the leg was incurable. The shock to Armand de Valtour's feeling was very great. He could have turned away and cried like a child as he heard that pitiless decree. Yet he knew it was but just that in some way he should suffer; that the sins and follies of his life should not go altogether unpunished."Will she be sorry when she hears?" he thought.Slowly, wearily the days passed on. More and more melancholy he grew. André became uneasy, the doctor looked grave. He pronounced progress to be less satisfactory than he had expected, and announced that the patient's mind must be roused or interested in some way. With untiring patience the young Provençal exerted himself to carry out these instructions. He gave a faithful account of Armand's condition to his sister, and spoke of his slow progress and broken spirits with ill-concealed alarm. "I think he grieves for some word from Madame," he wrote.One day a letter came for the Count. André took it to him himself, and put it in those feeble, languid hands that seemed now too weak for any exertion. As Armand glanced at the writing, the blood flew to his face. His lips quivered, his hands trembled so that they could scarcely break the seal.His eyes seemed to devour the lines before him, a great sigh that was almost a sob, burst from his pant-

ing heart; then, quite suddenly, the letter fell from his grasp. He bent his head down on his clasped hands and sobbed like a child."It is too much happiness;" he cried wildly. "Oh, my angel! my wife! Heaven grant that the future may atone for the past!"This was Adrienne's letter:--"MY HUSBAND,--They have only told me now of your long sufferings--your great danger. It was cruel to keep me in ignorance, but it was done for the best. I would hasten to you now, but another claim is on my life--the claim of a child's helplessness. Yes, Armand, as I write these words our little son lies by my side, and your eyes seem to look up to me from his face and waken again all the love of old. Let the past be forgotten; the future may yet atone for the misery and unhappiness I have felt. Come to me when health and strength allow of it. They say all danger is over now. God grant it! My heart is full to overflowing, but I am too weak to write more. Only remember your wife and child are ready to welcome you, and all the past is forgiven and forgotten. I can only think of you as suffering and alone, and long to be by your side."Armand do Valtour needed no more tonics after that letter. Happiness was the medicine that gave back strength to his body--hope to his heart.In all his life he had never known joy so pure, remorse so keen, as that which had come to him with the assurance of his wife's pardon, the knowledge of his wife's restored love.CHAPTER XXXI.ALL alone by her bright fire sat little Maï.Her face was pale, her eyes sad and anxious. Tears were falling on the open page of a letter lying upon her knee."His words are always so brief," she murmured. "And he left me without a farewell. It is always of Madame and Mademoiselle he speaks. What has the Count de Valtour ever done that André should leave wife and home and go of to those far countries to nurse and tend him? Had he not friends enough? And I--I have no one but André. What are these people to him that for their sake he should neglect me?"Her heart was very sore. That sudden departure--that apparent forgetfulness of herself had in no way been appeased by Mdlle. de Valtour's explanation by the thought that this service was rendered solely for the sake of the countess. In his letters André seemed to take it quite as a matter of course that she would look upon his absence as a necessity; but with the inconsistency of a woman's jealous, passionate love, she could not bring herself to do that. André was hers now. What right had he to leave her at the bidding of anyone--worst of all, to leave her in

such a sudden fashion without even a word of explanation or farewell?She had been hurt and indignant.That tender little heart of hers was aching bitterly. Tears blotted out the words on which she gazed.The old doubts and troubles were at work in her once more. She knew she was unsuited to André in many ways, that her faithful, tender love seemed of small account to him."I can never be beautiful, and sweet, and gracious, like madame," she sighed, with the old, instinctive jealousy that had come to her long ago, when first she had seen Adrienne at the Tour des Champs. "Oh, why did she ever come here? I was happy enough till then, and André seemed content."She thought that if, by any labour or any study, she could make herself different--could raise her mind to his level and enter more closely into that inner life which he barred from her entrance, she would gladly have undertaken it. But it seemed to her that learning was too difficult--that her long ignorance held her back in chains which no effort of her own could break.To bake, and sew, and wash, and work--these had been her duties from childhood till now, and yet for once she was discontented with her own proficiency and usefulness. The little wild rose in the hedge envied the beautiful exotic of the hothouse.She put the letter away at last, and brought out a

book of André's that she had been studying in those long evenings of his absence. But try as she might Maï could not master the intricacies of printed words and sentences. They dazzled her eyes and made her head ache, and left her brain only more confused and bewildered.With a sudden fit of despair she threw the book away, and cast herself down on her knees by the chair, and bent her head on her folded arms, and sobbed as if her heart was breaking. Those bitter sobs, that little figure shaken like a sapling by this storm of strong emotion, were all that greeted two wondering eyes--the eyes of a man, standing on the threshold of the unlatched door, and gazing in surprise at so strange a sight. With a sudden movement he crossed the space between her and himself, and bent over the prostrate figure." Maï," he cried; "Maï! What is it--what grieves you?"With a startled cry she sprang to her feet and faced him, her breast heaving wildly, her cheeks flushed like roses, her eyes dark and humid with tears, that yet could not dim the rapture of gladness that had come to them now."André!" she cried, and then sprang to his arms, and covered his hands with kisses, and as his lips touched hers, trembled with an ecstasy of delight that moved him greatly."You have come back," she sighed breathlessly; "you have come back.""Why, of course," he said, smiling tenderly. He could never be otherwise than tender to this warm-hearted, loving little soul. "Did you suppose I meant to stay away always? This month has been very long to me, Maï."She was silent for very happiness. All the sorrow of the past weeks was forgotten. The magic of his voice and touch had banished even her jealous fears."Why were you crying?" he asked her presently, and he lifted the little flushed, tear-stained face from his breast, and looked down on the deep, dark eyes that held such a world of love for him.She blushed crimson and hung her head."It was so foolish," she said. "I had been trying to learn--to grow a little wiser and cleverer. I wanted to be more like you, André, and the books seemed so hard to me, and I feel so stupid and ignorant--and I was unhappy, too. It was so hard to lose you, dear!"He listened, deeply touched, and for once bent down and kissed her, moved by some impulse that was more nearly love than any he had ever felt for her."Did you miss me so much?" he asked. "I often thought you must have fancied it strange my leaving you so abruptly, but I could not help it. Mademoiselle de Valtour was in such distress, and there was no one to go, and they dared not tell madame.""I know it all," said Maï quietly. "Of course you

could not help yourself. And the Count, how is he now?"She had drawn herself away from his arms with a certain quiet dignity that seemed newly come to her. The mention of these other people awoke the old jealous pain in her breast--brought back that shadow to her life which dimmed love's glory and love's faith.Andre watched her, a little surprised by the sudden change."He is nearly well," he answered, at last. "I left him at the château. He will suffer from effects of the accident always; still, it is a miracle that his life is spared. He was almost dying when I reached him. But do not let us speak of the Count any longer, Maï. Tell me of yourself--of my father. Is he well? And you--what have you been doing? You look pale and thin. Have you been working too hard, little one ?""No," she said, still keeping her eyes averted from his face. "And I have some good news for you, Andre. Your father is better; I almost fancy his memory will return! Once or twice lately he has spoken of things that occurred long ago--of your mother--of your childhood. It looks more hopeful, does it not?""Yes;" said André gravely. "God grant it may continue. It seems hard that he should not know me." He glanced round the clean, homely little kitchen. "He is not here?" he asked."No; he has gone to bed. It is late, you know.""And you were sitting up poring over those dry, dull books. Poor little Maï!" he said tenderly; and he seated himself by the fire, and drew her down on his knee. "You are wise enough, dear. Do not meddle with learning; I would rather have your simple, contented spirit than any knowledge.""I want to be more like you," she said, with a sigh. "I am so common and ignorant and stupid. Oh, André, often and often I think I ought never to have married you.""Do not say that," he answered gravely. "It makes me fancy I have made you unhappy when I would do all that lies in my power to give you joy. Such faithful love as yours deserves some recompense, Maï. You ought to have bestowed it on some one worthier than I.""I have loved you all my life--ever since I can remember," said little Maï simply. "I cannot change now. Why do you speak like that?""I hardly know," he said restlessly. "You are far too good, dear. Don't speak of growing wiser, or different in any way. I love you as you are--and ignorance is happiness--in a way, though often we do not think so till too late.""I only want to content you, to be of some use or comfort to you," said the girl softly. "More I cannot ask.""What a grave discussion!" said André lightly.

"What an odd welcome my little wife has given me. And I have been away--how long is it, dear?""A month and a week. It seems like a year," sighed Maï. " Were you glad to come home, André?""Indeed I was," he answered truthfully. "I never liked the Comte de Valtour, you know. It was dreary work being in attendance on him night and day. But he is very much changed. I think he will be a different man for the future. Heaven knows he need! His sins have been heavy enough.""And Madame loves him, despite all?""Yes," said André, a little bitterly. "Women are strange. The worst men are often loved best, it seems to me. She is like an angel in comparison to him; and yet--"His voice ceased abruptly. Maï looked up in surprise at his pale and troubled face."I suppose she cannot help it," she said, very softly. "When one loves, one loves. That is all."She spoke with greater wisdom than books could have taught her. The workings of her own heart brought home a truth which the widest range of philosophy could not have exceeded. When one loves, one loves.A long silence fell between them after those words. The minds of both were busy with many thoughts. At last André spoke."I shall not leave you again, little one. I learned

what it was to miss you during those long weeks. I seem to live two lives, Maï--one fantastical, visionary, full of dreams that delude, and hopes that cheat; the other simple, laborious in a way, but with the light of your love about its days and the sunshine of your smile to make it bright. I think the last is the best for me. I mean to try and make it so henceforth. Do you understand me, dear?""Yes," she said, turning very pale. "You speak like a poet, André, but I think I can follow your meaning. Your dreams are beautiful, no doubt, but they leave you restless and discontented. As long as I share some part of your life I am happy. I never asked for more, or, indeed, so much. My love would have been yours always to claim or leave, as you thought best. If you care for me ever so little, it is joy enough."She lifted her eyes to his. What he read there moved him deeply. She was not his ideal. She was not that sweet, fantastic, intoxicating vision that looked at him afar off, and was in some way a religion to his soul, and reigned apart from the fret and fever of life, pure as a star, mythical as those legends of the old, dead gods. No, she was none of these; only a simple, tender-souled, loving woman, whose life was his to glorify or destroy, according as the fancy took him.Being pure of heart, and strong to do what is right despite all tempting, and true to his own law of self-sacrifice once it had been recognised, there

is little need to say which course André Brizeaux would choose, and, so choosing, pursue through all the years to come when life would have grown less a martyrdom, and the peace that time brings had fallen slowly over his aching heart, and covered with a mantle of resignation those sweet wild dreams that once had meant so much.He might weep by their graves. He would never again draw them from thence, or give them life from his soul and hope from his heart!CHAPTER XXXII.THE lights burned soft and dim in Adrienne de Valtour's pretty boudoir.The firelight played on her beautiful face, the languid grace of the reclining figure in its loose white draperies. Close beside her was the cradle that Maï had described as being fit for a prince. A prince indeed was its occupant; a sovereign by royal right of love, a young despot who exercised undisputed sway over the entire household of the château, and had brought to Adrienne's heart the purest, sweetest bliss her life had ever known.It is marvellous this mother-love that God sends to woman. This passionate, unselfish, heart-filled worship for the little helpless being, whose presence brings its own welcome, for whose sake all suffering and anguish are accounted nothing; whose faintest cry thrills her whole being; whose tiny fingers unlock the gates of such love as never yet has filled her soul; a love earth cannot destroy, and heaven might almost envy.Adrienne lay there with closed eyes and smiling lips. She was too happy to sleep, though Mdlle. de Valtour and Odylle had left her for that purpose. She was thinking of the letter she had received from her husband--a letter that had brought the tears to

her eyes, and yet made her heart throb once more with the old remembered joy, and won the full and free forgiveness of her pure and loving heart. He would be with her soon. Ill and weak as he was, that message of hers had fired him with a restless impatience no counsel could combat. In André's care, under André's guardianship, the long and difficult journey was to be made. A week, a few days, perhaps, and he would be by her side.A cry from her child disturbed her. She bent forward, and took him from his cradle, and hushed him to sleep once more. The sound of his voice had deadened her ears to the sound of carriage wheels--the echo of footsteps.She kept the child in her arms and lay down to rest, her eyes on the little waxen face, the dark eye-lashes, the baby features that yet wore so ridiculous a likeness to those of its absent father, and in Adrienne's eyes were the very perfection of infantile beauty.Softly the door of her boudoir was opened. She glanced suddenly up, and saw Armand standing there leaning on his sister's arm. A little startled cry left her lips; she would have started to her feet, but an imperative gesture forbade her. He crossed the room with slow and halting steps, and then stood beside her, looking down with tear-dimmed eyes at the touching picture before him. Céline stole softly away. Husband and wife mere once more alone.The sight of that changed face, still pale and haggard from long illness--the wasted form--the

helplessness which his lameness had caused, and which appealed to her instincts of pity as a man's helplessness always does appeal to a woman--these feelings swept over Adrienne's heart, and the old love shone in her eyes, the old tenderness spoke in her voice."You have come--so soon! Oh, darling, was it wise? How ill you look! Sit down here and tell me all about your accident. I have scarcely understood it yet."There was no word of reproach--no allusion to the past, or their long separation. It was a greeting that put Armand de Valtour at once at ease, that made him love and bless his wife as he had never done before.Weak and exhausted, and overcome by vivid emotion, he sank down on the couch by her side. Her beautiful eyes looked up to his, her face was pale, her lips tremulous. The hot blood rushed from his heart to his brow, and instinctively he bent forward and took her hands in both his own, and looked down at her agitated face."Do you permit?" he asked softly, hesitatingly; and then, taking silence as consent, he stooped down and kissed the lovely, tremulous lips whose touch had been so long unknown.Such was their reconciliation.Half an hour had passed. To Armand it seemed but a few moments. He sat there and his eyes grew,

dim with tears as he looked on the sleeping child, the fair young mother.Adrienne had stopped his broken pleas, his humble entreaties, with just a few gentle words."I have said I forgive. Tell me no more."It was a pardon so noble that if he could have felt a greater reverence and adoration for her than he did, he would have felt it then; but emotion made him speechless, he only bowed his head before her, and the hot tears fell from his eyes--tear of penitence, of shame, of joy.Never again in all the years to come would Adrienne ever have cause to distrust her husband's love, or grieve for his misdoings. The lesson that he had learnt in suffering would go with him now for all the future, and keep him humble and true to that pure and tender devotion which had been strong to resent injustice, yet comprehensive enough to pardon all wrongs for love's sake alone."We will go to Paris no more;" said Armand de Valtour, later on that first joyful evening of re-union and forgiveness. "I told you, on our first arrival here, this should be our home; that you should make it so! Heaven forgive me if I broke that promise. For the future, I will keep it so long as it is your wish.""And that will be always," answered Adrienne, looking up with her sweet and tender smile. "What

is the world to me? We were never suited to one another. Let this be our home; here our duties lie--here all ties of love and relationship claim us. We can forget the fret and fever of life, the sorrows of the past. Here we can be happy and at rest."In the soft gloom she wound her arms around his neck and laid her head upon his breast, and he, looking back at the evil he had escaped, the sins he had sinned, the misery and remorse he had suffered, bent over her with a prayer upon his lips, a silent thanksgiving in his heart."God give me strength to atone," he murmured, and she, hearing the earnest words, looked up at him with eyes to which all the old radiance and glory had returned."You have atoned," she said softly, and placed her child in his arms, and gazed down at the little face with such rapture in her own as he had never seen.Armand de Valtour understood her then."I am so glad they are happy at last," said Céline de Valtour, coming into Madame de Savigny's dressing-room that night to talk over all these events."So am I," answered the little Marquise. "It is wonderful--it is like the romances one reads of. And so life is to be a pastoral idyl in the future to both of them. That is the only part of it I don't approve; but then, you see," she added, with one of her droll grimaces, "I have not tumbled down a precipice and broken my leg. Doubtless one looks

at life differently under those circumstances. For my part I should say Monsieur do Valtour will find it a trifle dull. Still, Adrienne will be too good a wife not to sacrifice her own inclinations if need be. I expect to see them in Paris yet."But she was wrong. The world saw no more of the Count and Countess de Valtour. They were too happy to seek again its fake excitements--its meretricious splendours, its allurements or triumphs."We are happier here." That is Armand de Valtour's answer to any persuasion of his friends of old.But to his wife he says that to be in touch with aught that makes lift nobler, purer, loftier is worth all that the world can offer.THE END.Printed by Cowan & Co., Limited, Perth.