II.

MONSIEUR LE BARON and Madame la Baronne de Saint-Flor were by no means such agreeable people as their son and daughter. They were stiff with an old-fashioned provincial stiffness. The Baron had been in the navy, had gray whiskers, and a red ribbon in his button-hole. Madame was a dark, grave, little woman with an important manner. They were both inclined to look on an Englishman as their natural enemy, and on this special one as a thing of inferior creation. With no title, not even in the army or navy, a merchant actually-but that must be some mistake, the Baronne was sure. Her son, with all his modern ideas, would never have brought as guest to Château Maupas a person who made his living by buying and selling. Monsieur and Madame de Saint-Flor made these remarks to each other privately. If they had known the length to which Albert's ideas had gone, led by common sense and affection for his friend, perhaps they would hardly have behaved to Frank with even outward courtesy. But in that they were faultless they both treated him with ceremonious politeness.

Somehow Frank hardly knew how it happened-he found himself staying on, day after day, at the château. He had his excuses. The roads were blocked with snow; the newspapers brought terrible accounts of the state of Paris buried in snow; so that all work was stopped, and the poor were starving. Madame de Saint-Flor insisted that her son should not risk his life on the railway in such weather, and was obliged to express polite anxiety about her guest too. Frank knew it was all nonsense; that under ordinary circumstances mountains of snow would not have kept him in CHRISTMAS, '80.

a dismal old place like this, with nothing to do but smoke and stare at the ancient tomes in the library, appear at meals when the bell clanged, listen to the eternal prosings of Monsieur le Baron, read the Union with its one-sided politics, hand madame her coffee after dinner. His active limbs could not be exercised by strolling backwards and forwards along the swept path to the stables, where two fat old horses stood eating their heads off. He felt inclined to suggest a game of Going to Jerusalem,' as he had seen it played by a number of lively people in a great house in the North one wet day. The long corridors of the château would have done well for such a game; but he looked at his four companions, and did not suggest it.

Of

After all he did not really want any amusement. He was 'deeply interested' that was the way he put it to himself-in Mademoiselle de Saint-Flor, and was wondering how he could hint to Albert that it was all humbug about waiting till he was forty, and marrying a countrywoman of his own. course he had very little talk with her, and their acquaintance did not seem to advance much. The sweet welcoming manner, the sympathetic smiles of the first evening, seemed to be her highest mark. In her mother's presence she scarcely ever went so far, and she and Frank were never alone together. Now and then their eyes met, and though it was only for an instant, Frank felt a strong deep excitement, a longing to make her look at him again.

By and by, when he was satisfied that she in her strange way was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, it dawned on him that her usual expression was intensely sad; that when her mouth and eyes were quiet, and her face

D

bent over the tapestry she worked at for hours together, she looked as if she could never smile again. Frank thought about her day and night. He trembled at every sign of a thaw, and the white flakes as they steadily descended were more precious to him than showers of gold. Madame de Saint-Flor came into the diningroom one morning and found him standing at the window whistling cheerfully, as he stared out into a thick snow-storm.

'You are most unfortunate, monsieur,' she said. 'Instead of improving, the weather seems to grow worse. I sympathise most truly with both you and Albert.'

You are very good, madame,' said Frank, smiling. I assure you that I never was more happy and contented. If it had not been for this obliging snow, I might never have known Albert's relations.'

'You make the bad weather pass very pleasantly for us,' said the Baronne graciously. 'We too are glad to know our son's best friend.'

She could not resist the conviction that this merchant was like a gentleman, though it half provoked her that he should take their hospitality for granted in this sort of

way.

At breakfast that day the talk happened to turn on architecture, and Monsieur de Saint-Flor assured Frank that the house which sheltered him at that instant was a pure specimen of François Premier. The outer walls and fortifications had of course been pulled down: there had formerly been eight corner towers, of which only one remained, the old disused colombier. But the three pavillons of the house itself, with the galleries connecting them, stood precisely as the sixteenth century had left them. Monsieur de Saint-Flor told

his companions that he was proud of their very dilapidation, and would never consent to their being restored. He remarked that restoration was the tomb of history. Frank, who had often heard Albert speak of the old château in a very different strain, was irreverent enough to wonder whether a good balance at his banker's would not alter M. le Baron's opinion. He discovered, however, that Marguérite-this was her lovely name, by which the bold Englishman already called her in his dreams— had a very affectionate admiration for the old place; she looked up and smiled, and joined in the conversation quite eagerly.

After breakfast Albert walked down with his father to the village, half a mile off, to settle some business at the Mairie. Frank, after wandering all round the château, even under the rugged walls of the south front, where there was a patch of ground railed off and planted with shrubs, and where he saw something that startled him a good deal, made his way back to the salon windows, where he looked in and saw Marguérite sitting over her tapestry. The wild old place with its long history, its owners with their stiff old-fashioned ways, the stern winter that blocked it in, the dead silence, only broken by the fall of a mass of snow from some overladen tree, and now a real mystery to account, as it were, for all this suggestiveness-these were certainly strange surroundings for a matter-of-fact young Saxon. Marguérite herself was like an enchanted lady, so silent and lovely, and always dressed in white and black, like a nun, or a creature with some sad history. It was a privilege to find her alone, and he hurried into the room, where she welcomed him with a smile. He stood and watched her needle as it

passed in and out among the coloured arabesques she was working.

'Have you been examining our architecture, monsieur?' she said. 'I saw you wandering round the house.'

'Yes, mademoiselle. And I saw something that puzzled me; perhaps you can explain it?'

Marguérite dropped her needle, leaned back, and fixed her eyes on him; the deep, wondering sadness in them appalled the young man. 'Do not distress yourself,' he said, colouring. It is too curious of me to notice it, perhaps.' 'What was it? I should like you to tell me.'

'Well, I was under the windows of the south pavillon, where the garden is railed off, you know. The windows are barred, but one of them was open, and an old lady was standing at it. Her hair was white. She had nothing on her head. I am afraid she would catch cold. She looked at me, and waved her hand through the bars. I took off my hat, and she called out suddenly, "Take care what you are doing, monsieur !" and then she turned away and I no more of her. Mademoiselle, perhaps I had no business in that part of the garden?'

saw

'No, no, you had not,' repeated Marguérite hastily.

'No one told me to keep out of it,' said Frank, in a low voice, looking at her intently.

She stooped forward over her work, and took up her needle again; but her fingers were trembling, he saw, so that she could not guide it. He saw that she was flushing slowly and deeply, her whole face and neck changed from their usual ivory to rosy red. She stooped forward still more, and suddenly a tear fell, shining on the work. Then she got up with a quick movement, and was going

to leave the room, but to do this she had to pass Frank, and he was not inclined to let her go so easily.

'At least forgive me before you go, mademoiselle?' he said, with an air of the deepest penitence. 'What have I said or done? I am perfectly wretched. I shall go out and shoot myself.'

At this threat a smile just quivered about Marguerite's mouth.

'I beg you will do no such thing!' she said, with a momentary glance and a renewed blush. I am very foolish. I must tell you the truth. The old lady you saw is an aunt of ours. We have all lived here together for the last nine or ten years. She is peculiar, and has rooms of her own in that part of the house. She does not like strangers-never sees any one

I think you had better not go near her again.'

Frank bowed.

'I am very sorry, indeed, that I intruded on her,' he said. 'But no one had given me a hint of her existence.'

'She prefers to be unknown,' said Marguérite, and she sighed deeply as she turned away to open the door.

Frank Morley always prided himself on his knowledge of foreign life and customs. He used to talk finely of meeting foreigners on their own ground; but it seems as if he must just then have forgotten where he was, carried away by the excitement of the moment. Forgetting all the proprieties, he threw himself-figuratively-at the feet of Mademoiselle de Saint-Flor.

for at that moment Frank was very tragical. She looked extremely surprised, as well she might, at his extraordinary breach of etiquette. But she did not seem angry, and she made no effort to leave the room.

'Ah, what are you saying?' she whispered. You forget-you forget'

'What do I forget?' said Frank. Is there anything I ought to remember? Are you offended? Will you answer me?'

She shook her head. Presently, after more prayers and eager questions, she confessed that she did not hate him-no, why should she? But he had surprised her very much, and-in fact, she did not know what to say.

'I ought to have spoken first to your father!' cried Frank, suddenly recollecting himself. But that roundabout fashion is all very well for those who don't care as I do. Are you angry? Do you wish that I had spoken to him first?'

'I don't know-everything is strange,' said Marguérite. It is only because I am afraid he will think that you ought. We always do, you know.'

Then you will let me speak to him now exclaimed Frank, in immense excitement.

You frighten me-you are so terribly English. Can I prevent you?'

As the Baron was half a mile off through the snow, and as Frank felt that bis part of the business must be managed through Albert with all possible formality, he did not find it necessary to leave off his love-making at this point, unorthodox as it was. Marguérite, with all her charm, was a puzzle to him. There seemed to be more wistful sadness than ever in those wonderful violet eyes as she looked up at him; a sort of sad indifference in her manner too, though

through it all he knew that she belonged to him, and that she recognised the fact. For some minutes she seemed to be trying to say something, to give him some warning; she had a way of lifting up her hand, as if to check him in his protestations.

Let me speak,' she said at last; let me tell you something. You are making a sad mistake; it may be only the beginning of the end. Do you believe me? Are you superstitious at all?'

'Not in the least, thank Heaven,' said Frank. And I never make mistakes. Are you superstitious? Is there anything that makes you afraid for yourself? Is it leaving your country?'

'I am not afraid for myself,' she answered. And the superstition-it is all nonsense, after all. But what did I want to say to you? Ah, this! I am not a girl, you know. I am a woman, more than twenty-six years old. I have suffered a great deal. I have not much to give you, except just myself.'

'What do I want more?' said Frank. 'Yes, one knows you have suffered, even by your dress. Do you never wear even a blue ribbon, Marguerite ?

She looked at him solemnly for a moment, and then smiled. 'No,' she said; 'but you must not ask me why. Perhaps some day I may tell you. Now I must not stay here with you any longer. Open the door, if you please, and let me go.'

Frank obeyed. She paused in the doorway, under the shadow of the velvet curtain; laid two fingers on her lips, and looked at him, deeply, intently, as if she was asking him some question on the answer to which her life depended. He thought afterwards that he had never seen anything so extraordinary.