"He confessed to me yesterday that he had a secret," said Horace.

"I can guess it," resumed Madame Véretz. "And to free my heart," answered Horace, "I am going to write to my mother this very evening."

As often happens, the wind suddenly fell during the night. In consequence, the Marquis was not to be seen the next day. Madame Véretz strove to find out about him. Perhaps she had spies in her employ, and sent them around the country. A few hours later she had the satisfaction of telling her daughter and Monsieur de Penneville that, every morning, except when it was rainy or windy, the Marquis de Miraval took the boat which crossed the lake from Ouchy to Evian, and passed the entire day in Savoy, returning at the very last moment to dine at the hotel. Now what was his business in Savoy? They were lost in conjectures. The thing most probable upon which they settled down was that Madame de Penneville had left Vichy for Evian, and that her agent and emissary joined her every day to confer with her, and that the bomb would explode before long. Madame Véretz seriously expressed a wish, although under the form of a joke, that the Marquis should be tracked, and that Monsieur de Penneville should go to Evian the next day to find out what was going on. Her daughter and Horace disliked the idea, and declined the proposition, one from honor, the other from prudence. Madame Corneuil, who had been timid ever since that night when she had been so disturbed by bad dreams, said to herself, "Out of sight out of mind." Not that she minded so much that for an entire day the lake would separate her and her beloved, but she was afraid lest, in the chances of this expedition, he might fall into the hands of the Philistines, who would get him away from her.

Their anxiety was soon over. Horace had written to his mother, and received from her the following reply:

"MY DEAR CHILD: Monsieur de Miraval agreed to let you know my inmost thought on the subject of the marriage which you are contemplating. Why do you speak of plotting? Your uncle wrote me, and, to prove to you how sincerely I am acting in this matter which troubles me so much, I take it upon myself to send you his letter, begging you to say nothing to him about it, for he would not easily forgive my indiscretion. You will see by this letter how little he is prejudiced against the woman whom you love, and consequently the objections which he makes to your scheme deserve to be taken

The letter of the Marquis ran thus:

"MY DEAR MATHILDE: I have delayed taking pen in hand, and trust you will forgive me. The case is altogether different from what I expected, and demands further reflection. I have very little hope of separating Horace from her whom I call his 'asp of the Nile.' I promised you that I would bring all my diplomatic talent to bear on this occasion. I was wrong to be so sure of my weapons; what can diplomacy effect where such a woman is concerned? You know that I came here armed with prejudices to the teeth; you know, also, that I am somewhat a judge of both men and women, and that I do not lack quickness of perception. I have seen and I have been conquered; I could not help saying so to Madame Corneuil herself. I will not mention to you her marvelous beauty, the grace of her wit, her literary talent, which is of the very first order, or the nobility of her sentiments. One word will suffice. You know how great was my horror of this marriage; I entered upon a campaign of which I have a very disagreeable remembrance. For the first timeyou will believe you are dreaming, my dear, and yet it is only too true-yes, if it were not for Horace, if Madame Corneuil's heart were free, if my sixty-five years did not terrify her, yes, I would without hesitation dare to venture all, and I believe I could thus make sure of my happiness for the few years I have yet to live. You will laugh at me, and rightly. Fortunately, Horace exists; and, besides, be assured, I should stand no chance of being accepted. There, let us leave my little Utopia and speak of Horace. If things are so, you will say, let him marry her! No, my dear Mathilde, I do not think it would be a happy marriage. There is a decided want of sympathy in the disposition, taste, and character of these two beings; it is impossible for me to admit that they are made for one another. I have spoken my mind freely to Horace, but there is no reasoning with a lover. You might as well play the flute to a fish. I have tried both lovers and fish unsuccessfully, and they are the hardest creatures on earth to persuade. Nevertheless, I will make one more attempt, and renew the attack at the favorable moment, and you shall hear from me before long. But I must say, without reproaching you, however, that I regret bitterly ever coming to Lausanne; you little suspect the poor service you rendered me in sending me hither, or the stormy days and troubled nights which are spent here by your old uncle, who embraces you."

Five minutes after reading this letter-that is to say, at ten o'clock in the morning-Horace, transgressing all the rules of the country, ran to the chalet, where Madame Véretz received him. He was beside himself, and the first thing which he did was to burst out laughing.

"Hush!" said she quickly, grasping him by the arm. "Do you forget that it is against the rule to laugh here in the morning?"

Horace threw a passionate kiss in the direction of the sanctuary and said to Madame Véretz: "Dear madame, come then as soon as you can to the garden, for absolutely I must laugh." As soon as they were in the arbor-" Oh," resumed he, "something altogether too funny has happened!"

"What has happened? What is it all about?' "My poor, poor uncle!" and he burst out laughing again.

but every day begins to make his wide and monotonous circuit round the chalet, where his heart stays fixed."

"Yes," said Madame Véretz; "that is it. We must believe that the planets love the sun, and yet fear it. That is the reason why they move round it in circles."

"But, to speak the truth," answered he, resuming his serious manner, "that is not just the way astronomers explain the thing."

"Heaven help them!" said Madame Véretz. At these words she slipped into her pocket the Marquis's letter, which Horace never thought of asking for again.

66

Madame Véretz started.

"You are telling me a most remarkable story."

"Only listen to me, please." Thereupon he read both letters aloud, interrupting his reading at intervals to indulge freely in his gayety.

The first thing Madame Véretz did was to laugh also, the second to listen with religious attention, the third to take the letters, which Horace had just read, out of his hands, and to authenticate the most interesting passages. It is well to believe only one's own eyes.

"Oh, my poor uncle !" exclaimed he. "This was your famous secret! He must have rewritten that letter ten times before sending it off; he was afraid my mother would laugh at him. Just notice the pains he has taken to make it all a joke, and yet how, in spite of himself, he betrays the seriousness of his passion. Yes, 'his days are stormy and his nights disturbed.' I can well conceive it. I beg you to see how everything is explained-his incoherent conduct, his blushes, his perplexity, his singular attacks of rudeness, and all his impolite behavior toward you, when he is so polite and such a slave to conventionality! He has determined not to put foot in your house again, as the butterfly resolves not to fly again into the flame of the candle. Every morning he thinks, I must leave Lausanne, I will go away,' but has not the courage to go. And, since he can not keep still, he airs his love-troubles on the lake. We wondered what he could be doing in Savoy. He goes to Meillerie to look at the rock of Saint-Preux, and rehearse his sorrows in its great shadow. Then he says to himself again, I must go,' and yet he does not go,

"If you think anything of my judgment, my dear Count, you will not tell her a word of it, not a single word," answered Madame Véretz seriously. "Let us laugh over it between ourselves like two schoolfellows, but you know Hortense does not like to laugh. She is so sensitive, that that which amuses us might wound or grieve her."

"Heaven keep me from that! Still, I am sorry that you forbid it, it is such a good story!" Thereupon he left her, but, on returning to his own room, said to himself, "No matter, sooner or later, when the right moment comes, I shall speak about it to Hortense."

V.

It was near ten o'clock in the evening. The mother and daughter were alone in their salon. Madame Véretz was seated at her embroideryframe, Madame Corneuil was leaning back dreamily on a lounge; as she was not meditating, it was allowable to talk.

"Then to-morrow is the great day," said her mother to her, lifting her head from her work. "What do you mean?"

"Monsieur de Penneville is to bring forth his great work. He has told me that his manuscript is seventy-three leaves long, neither more nor less; you know how important those leaves are. We shall not get off with less than two whole hours of it by the clock. That fellow's voice is so distinct and penetrating that we can hear without listening. It fills our ears whether we wish it or not. You are fortunate, my dear: Monsieur de Miraval told the truth when he said that you have the faculty of sleeping without showing it."

"It is no crime in my eyes; we must protect ourselves against Apepi as well as we can. Every one has his own way of getting out of the rain. Heavens! the dear fellow may have his peculiarities, but that does not prevent him from having a kind heart, and all that; neither does it prevent him from being adored."

"Ah, yes, I adore him," answered Madame Corneuil sharply, “or rather, Monsieur de Penneville is inexpressibly dear to me, and I beg you never to doubt that."

Madame Véretz began to embroider again, and after a short silence said: "Good heavens! what a pity!"

"What is the matter now?"

"What has gone wrong with you to-night?” said Madame Corneuil, shaking her beautiful head like a bored Muse, and pouting her Juno lips like a Juno who has not yet met her Jupi

ter.

Madame Véretz drew her needle in and out, and hummed a tune to herself. Madame Corneuil renewed the conversation.

"I do not know what has gotten hold of you. You seem to have set to work to disgust me with my happiness. Who was it who wished for this marriage, or at least advised it?"

"Love takes the place of all else, my daugh

"What uncle are you talking about?”
"The Marquis de Miraval."

"That conspirator! That dreadful old man!" "You never gave him a fair look-he is not dreadful at all. His expression is charming, his voice is fresh, his hand dimpled and well kept, just the hand of a diplomate or prelate. Do you dislike him so much?" "Unspeakably."

"You are unjust, very unjust; he has a great many different kinds of merit. In the first place, he is a marquis; the other is only a count, and the streets are full of counts. Then, too, his income is not sixty thousand livres; he has more than three times as much."

"Two hundred thousand," said Madame Corneuil. Why do you stop there?"

"Still another advantage; if he chooses to marry again,, he is not obliged to endeavor to reconcile his mother to the marriage. We may try in vain. Madame de Penneville will never like us. You see that she will break with her son, and that will be a bad thing for you. The world, in such cases, always sides with the mother; and then, Monsieur de Miraval is no antiquary, but a man of the world, and, what is more, a very ambitious one. He has determined to enter political life again; before many months he will be either deputy or senator, as he chooses." "Who told you so?”

"He himself, and he added that his only grief was that he was unmarried, for he needed a 'salon,' and there could be no salon without a wife. The other only cares for grottoes, and only sighs for his dear Memphis, whither he will take you at once."

"Heavens! you know very well that I have never met the man of my dreams. But I love Horace; I mean by that that I have liked him and still like him. But you have not told me why to-night—”

"While to-night-?"

Ah, to-night I know of another one."

Madame Véretz rose from her chair, and, after rummaging in her pocket, drew near her daughter, and said to her:

"Read these two letters; I do not give them to you, I only lend them, for Monsieur de Penneville noticed that I kept them, and I must send them back to him to-morrow morning."

Madame Corneuil cast her eyes disdainfully over the first of the two letters; but, when she began the second, she changed her position, roused herself from her languor, her pale cheek was suffused with color, and something could be read in her eyes which her long eyelashes did not strive to conceal.

And yet, when she had finished reading, she rose, took an envelope from a drawer, inclosed both letters in it, begged her mother to direct it, rang for Jacquot, and said to him:

'Take this packet to the Count de Penneville immediately!" after which she sank back on the lounge again.

"Not another word," rejoined the daughter. "You know I can not endure that sort of jesting."

Madame Véretz returned to her embroidery. Madame Corneuil rose, and walked up and down the room restlessly and excitedly. Then she seated herself at the piano, and sighed forth in an agitated, passionate voice that song of Mignon's which Horace liked so well. She stopped in the middle of the last verse, and, turning toward her mother, said:

"No, I do not understand you. Is it possible that you can seriously propose to me that I should give up a man who is full of good qualities, a man worthy of my esteem, and personally attractive also?"

"The other morning, when he laughed so, he looked like a splendid sheep who had learned Coptic," interrupted Madame Véretz.

“A man who has my word," resumed she. "You dread scandal; I think, then, there would be something to criticise."

"It is only necessary to take proper precautions. We need not leave him-he can leave us."

"You are just like the King of Prussia; you talk about your heart and your conscience, and let things take their own course, merely reserving the right to disclaim your responsibility. Well, then, I will be your Bismarck."

And, so saying, she accompanied her adorable angel to the door of her sacred retreat.

The next day a fine rain fell in the early morning, notwithstanding which the Marquis did not visit his nephew, which disappointed Madame Véretz exceedingly; perhaps she had intended to stop him by the way and take possession of him. In the afternoon the weather cleared up, and she proposed to her daughter to take a drive. Horace did not go with them; he depended upon going over his manuscript again, that there need be no impediment in his reading this evening; he felt that it could never be good enough.

As the ladies were returning from their drive along the beautiful esplanade of Montbennon,

"Ah, pardon—the Marquis is only sixty-five, and he does not look that. He has had a splendid past, and still will have a pleasant future. I predict a great success for him in the tribune, one of those successes which is rewarded with a ministry. France is so poor in men! and then, my dear idol, you had better believe that only old men know how to love! They are so pleased that they are tolerated; I will add also that Monsieur de Miraval has fine taste-he appreciates our writing. He stamps it 'of the highest order'."

Thereupon Madame Véretz left her work again, rushed at her daughter, and, pressing her in her arms, said:

"Are you vexed? Then we will say no more about it. Monsieur de Penneville and his uncle are totally unlike. You like one—” "You never get the right word—I do not dislike him."

"And you do dislike the other?" "Heavens! I did dislike him." "Well, now they are both on the same footing, on the same level. The lists are open."

"You are quite right; you will end in offending me in good earnest," answered Madame Corneuil, lighting a candle to retire to her room.

As she was going out she drew near the window, and for a moment gazed upon the starry vault as if to seek an inspiration therefrom.

and of the Alps, Madame Véretz, whose eyes ferreted out everything, perceived the Marquis seated in a melancholy attitude upon a solitary bench. She descended quickly from the carriage, begging her daughter to return alone. A few minutes after, with seeming carelessness, she passed before the Marquis at a distance of about ten steps, and uttered a little scream of joyful surprise. Monsieur de Miraval saw a chignon of most beautiful red come between him and the Alps; he would have preferred it to have been blonde, but made the best of it.

"Thanks be to this good chance!" exclaimed Madame Véretz. "You are my prisoner, Monsieur le Marquis, and must surrender at discretion."

He offered her his arm, saying to her:

'I am much pleased with my jailer, dear madame."

"I will excuse you from being gallant," answered she. "I only wish you to speak to me openly, if that can ever be asked of a diplomate. Will you be sincere?"

"I will be as sincere as Amen-Heb, surnamed the truth-telling keeper of the flocks of Ammon."

"You must at once acknowledge that I have the right to question you. Has not your conduct toward us been most peculiar? Since the day Monsieur de Penneville introduced you, you have taken every pains to avoid us."

"Believe me, madame-"