A PARISIAN ROMANCE.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XV, Issue V, 3 August 1895, Page 144

A PARISIAN ROMANCE.

E ~Z

A. D. HALL.

CHAPTER Xlll.—Continued. • How stupid of you, Rosa, exclaimed Gillette, to oiler champagne to that un happy man.' • 1 know it ! Of course I was stupid, but I was carried away by my sympathy for the poor fellow. He is charming. You say he is in your employ, Chevrial ‘ Yes, he is my secretary.’ ‘ Oh, your secretary ?’ with a mischievous move. ' Then 1 pity Madame Chevrial less. An involuntary smile went round the table. ‘Really, Rosa,‘said Chevrial, querulously, • after all the pains I have taken for you today, you might have spared me that taunt. For, without boasting, I have accomplished miracles.’ • Yes, assented Rosa, nonchalantly sipping her wine, • you have really been very kind.’ • By the way. Chevrial,’ said Laubanere, • finish that story of the villa.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ laughed Rosa, ‘ he is dying to tell it.’ •Oh, it won’t take long,’said Chevrial. • This morning at eleven o’clock the subject had not been broached. I happened to know that the Count Salvini had returned to Naples, and that his villa was for sale. I learned that Mademoiselle Rosa desired to purchase it ; 1 offered her my bumble services in the negotiations, and before sunset the title-deeds were in her possession. That is all.’ • Bravo, dear boy,’ cried Tirandel. • Upon my word, baron,’said Vaumartin, • one would say that you were in possession of Aladdin’s wonderful lamp. Rosa looked up with a merry twinkle in her eyes. • Or that he was one of the forty thieves,’ she added, quickly. • Or that 1 am one of the forty thieves,’ repeated the baron, testily, in the midst of the laughter provoked by this sally. Oh, exactly. However, I am perfectly indifferent to it. It is the fashion to sneer at money and millionaires, but as a matter of fact, you all adore them both. Now, tell me, why have I the honour and pleasure of your society this evening. Because you like me. And why do you like me. I ask you that. Am I handsome '!' • No !’ was the laughing rejoiner, shouted in chorus. • Have I talent? Have I genius’’ ‘No.’ • Am I a man remarkable in any way ?' ‘No.’ • Am I a good fellow !' ‘No.’ ‘ No. I am not oven a good fellow. And yet,’ he continued, with a sarcastic smile, * I am courted, idolised by the elite of both sexes, which you here represent so worthily.’ • Bravo,’ cried Rosa. ‘He speaks well. You ought to become a deputy.’ • I am thinking of it,’ Chevrial responded, dryly, as he motioned them to fill their glasses. ‘ Here is a toast to the god who gives us all pleasures, to the god Money, so much calumniated by the envious. To Money.’ • To Money.’ ‘Fill up again, and 1 will offer you a second toast. To my charming neighbour, in my opinion, one of the most exquisite incarnations of divine matter. To Rosa.’ • To Rosa.’ ‘ Thanks,’ said Rosa, demurely.

• Pardon me,’ said Vaumartin, who was beginning to show a little the effects of the frequent libations. I join with all my soul in that toast, and I wish to proclaim also the charming lady the queen of hearts as she is the queen of Howers,’ • Good. Good.’

• I wish to protest, however,’ continued Vaumartin, with a silly grin, * against the mat—materialistic character of our friend's toast. I personally am an idealist—l ’ * Oh, pshaw,’ cried Rosa, laughing. * Don't let us have any discussions. Listen to that divine waltz. Can you resist it ?’ * Yes, yes, a waltz,’ cried Laubanere, seizing Gillette about the waist, and whirling hor out into the middle of the room. His example was quickly followed by Vaumartin with Mademoiselle Bertoldi, and Tirandel with Mademoiselle Lombard. • Come, baron. With me,’ exclaimed Rosa, taking him by the hand.

Round and round whirled the four couples to the inspiring strains of Strauss, the silk incased limbs and gauzy skirts of the ladies forming an odd contrast to the black dress suits of their partners. Suddenly the baron stopped, and releasing Rosa, staggered toward the table. Hia face was flushed a deep purple hue, hie

heavy lower lip hung pendulously down, and his breath came in short, quick gasps. Rosa threw herself down in hor chair at

the bead of the table, and unfurled a large black fan which she wore attached to her girdle by a silver chain. One after another the other couples returned gayly to their places, laughing and out of breath.

The baron, slowly, and with apparent difficulty, filled a glass to the brim with champagne, and raising it in the air, he said, with a glance around the circle of his guests that had something of vacancy in it:

' I offer you another toast, and the last.’ ‘ No. No ; not the last,’ exclaimed Rosa.

‘Yes, the last. To Matter. The fruitful source of all things, and, in particular, of the delightful things we are enjoying at this present moment. To Matter, which sparkles in our glasses like a distilled essence of precious stones, and fills our veins with youth and pleasure.’ The baron paused a moment and seemed trying to collect his thoughts. ‘ Bravo,’ cried Vaumartin. ‘ Bravo,’ echoed the rest. ‘To Matter,' continued Chevrial, his voice sounding a little thicker and huskier than before. To Matter, that shines forth from the white shoulders of our young friends—’ ‘ Bravo. Go on.’ ‘To Matter. I said, to Matter.’

It was with great effort that he spoke now, and the words fell slowly from his lips, as if forced out. ‘To Matter, which—united to money—gives products—no—the most astonishing /e/es, and—and—Trimalcyon, for example — but—but—that was among the ancients. The ancients did not know everything n—o —not everything.’ What he was saying was now scarcely audible, and the words were mumbled incoherently. The purple of his face had deepened and his eyes seemed starting out of their swollen sockets. With one hand he leaned heavi'y on the table. The other, which still held aloft the glass, trembled as if struck with palsy, and the yellow liquid was dashed over the brim in a shower of golden drops. ‘No—no —not everything,’ he rambled on, amid the silence of his guests who looked at one another in astonishment and alarm, ‘ not gas—stock at thirty-eight. I —the gas affects—the heat —ill—I—l ’ His head sank heavily upon his breast, his up lifted hand fell to his side, and with a crash, the champagne glass was shivered into a thousand pieces. In an instant all were on their feet. ‘What is the matter, baron?’ exclaimed Rosa. ‘ Are you ill ?’ asked Laubanere, putting his arm about the shaking form. • Give him air,’ said Tirandel, in a low voice. •Will you go out on the balcony with me where you can get the air ?’ asked Rosa, coming close to Chevrial’s side and taking his hand. The baron started, shuddered, and raised his head a little. • Yes, yes,’ he murmured faintly, ‘ you—you understand me.’ ‘Very well then, said Rosa, drawing his arm through hers. ‘ Lean upon me. It is nothing. You will soon be better. Come.’ Slowly the baron turned, and with faltering steps allowed himself to be led out upon the balcony. • He is breaking up,’ said Tirandel, in a low voice, and with an ominous shake of the head. ‘What is the matter with him?’ asked Gillette.

‘ Oh, it is nothing,’ replied Laubanere. ‘ I have seen him almost as bad once or twice before. Ah, here is the doctor.’ ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ exclaimed Doctor Chesnel. who had just entered, advancing to the group, hat in hand, and overcoat thrown over his arm. Ladies, your most obedient.' • You are just in time, doctor,’ said Tirandel, shaking his hand ; our friend has been taken ill.’ • Whom do you mean ?' asked the doctor. • Who has been taken ill ?’ ‘The baron.’ ‘The baron. Where is he?’

* Out there, on the balcony.’ The doctor threw down hia hat and coat oi> a chair, but before he could make a step toward the window he was start ed by a low cry of horror, and Rosa hurried through the window. In another moment, outlined against the clear, starry sky, the baron was seen to sway and then fall heavily to the ground. The doctor hurried out to the b.dcony and bent over the prostrate form. Rosa had sunk down near the window,* with her face buried in her hands, as if to shut out some awful sight. The others

stood as if turned into marble, all eyes fixed upon the balcony. Through the room floated the sensuous melody of ‘ Wine, Women, and Mong,' which the band was playing out of eight, in the curtained recess. Then, suddenly the doctor straightened himself up, turned and faced the frightened company. Raising his hand with a commanding gesture: ‘Stop that music,’ he said, in grave, solemn tones. ‘The baron is dead.’ CHAPTER XIV, ILLUSIVE HOPES. Doctor Chesnel was right when he said that he could not understand why it was that people laughed whenever Asnieres was mentioned. A prejudice does exist against the town among Parisians, but upon what this prejudice is based, it is difficult to eay. Certainly it is not a fashionable place, but situated as it is on the banks of the Seine, and within easy distance of the metropolis, it offers many attractions as a place of residence. No more charming place of retreat from from the bustle and turmoil of the city could be imagined than the villa which the doctor had purchased, just outside of the town on the banks of the river. The house itself was of medium size, painted white, and over-run with clematis ; the rooms were bright and sunny, and furnished with all sorts of queer odds and ends of furniture and bric-a-brac which Chesnel had picked up from time to time. The chief beauty of the place, however, was the garden, with its parterres of brilliant old-fashioned flowers, and its magnificent old trees, through the branches cf which could be caught glimpses of the placid river and the meadows beyond. In this garden, one afternoon early in October, sat, in a low reclining chair. Madame de Targy, who, with her son, had come to Asnieros a few days before to pay her good friend, the doctor, a long promised visit. Her book had slipped from her hands and, with half closed eyes, she was enjoying to the full the luxury of absolute idleness.

After all the trouble that had come to her during the last year, it was unspeakable comfort to be able to rest in this quiet, peaceful spot. The first few weeks after Marcello’s flight had been terrible ones. The first outbreak of shame and anguish passed, Henri had absolutely forbidden all mention of his wife’s name. Then bad come the news of the shipwreck of the Fulton. At that time, Madame de Targy, in spite of her son’s prohibition, had attempted some words of consolation, but she had been tenderly, but firmly silenced. ‘ Mother,’ he said, • leave me to bear my burden alone. Some day I may be able to talk with you, but not now.’ Uncomplainingly, but pale and silent, he went about his work as usual, and the mother’s heart had ached, as she had felt how powerless she was to comfort him. Of late, however, he had seemed a little more cheerful, and Madame de Targy was beginning to feel that there might be happy days in store for them still.

To-day, Henri, who had received a fortnight’s vacation from the bank, where he still retained his position under the new management, had gone on a fishing excursion, and the doctor was in Paris, attending to his professional duties ; so Madame de Targy was alone. As she lay under the trees, half-lulled to sleep by the soft, balmy air, she was roused by a light step coming over the grass, and looking up, she saw a black robed figure advancing toward her.

‘ Armande ! Armande Chevrial 1 Can it be possible ?’ she exclaimed, rising to hor feet, and holding out both hands. Madame Chevrial stooped and kissed the old lady on both cheeks, and then, making her resume her seat, sat down bee de hor upon a rustic bench. Very becoming were the sombre garments to the blue eyes and golden hair of the baroness, and, upon her fair face was a look of peaceful contentment that had not been there during the baron’s life. ‘ My dear child,’ said Madame de Targy, affectionately, * what a pleasure it is to see you. And so unexpected, too. I thought you intended to remain at*Dieppe until the middle of November.’

‘1 did intend to,’ replied Armande, ‘ but I was recalled to Paris by a matter of business. I will tell you about it presently. Almost as soon as I arrived yesterday, I

went to the Rue de Rome, but I found no one there.’ • No. We have been here for three or four days now. A long time ago I promised our good doctor to make him a visit, but I wished to wait until my son could come with me.’

• And how is your son ?' ‘ A little more cheerful. The country does him good, it seems to me. He is beginning to emile again, poor boy. But tell me of yourself. Are you to be in Paris this winter?’

‘I do not know,’answered Armande, with a slight hesitation. ‘ I think so.’ Madame de Targy cast an admiring glance at the grave, sweet face of the young widow.

‘ My. dear,’ she said, with a frankness justified by their old friendship, * you are more beautiful than ever.’

Armande smiled sadly. * Ah,’ she said, * if you knew how little I cared for that.’

* But you should care. Beauty is a great gift, a power for good or evil. It all depends on the use made of it. And you, my dear, we all know would never abuse it.’

It was an unspeakable pleasure to Armande, who, in spite of her wealth, was so lonely, to hear words of praise and affection from this old lady she had always been so fond of. Before the baron’s death, her horror of his shameless life and the deep feeling of disgust that overwhelmed her at the thought that she was bound to this monster, had made her exceedingly cold and reserved, and she had mace but few friends. To Madame de Targy, however, who had known her from a child, she was able to open her heart to a certain extent, and iu her she had always found a staunch and loyal friend. Still, from a certain feeling of delicacy, she hesitated to broach the subject which had brought her to Asnieres to-day. * What a pretty place this is.’ she said, absently gazing across the river to where the towers and roofs of Paris were visible beyond the meadows. * k’es,’ said Madame de Targy, • it is delightful here. I will show you the house by and by. It is full of quaint things. But, you said some matter of business had brought you to Paris. Nothing unpleasant, I hope.' ‘No,’ said Armande, with a slightly embarrassed air. ‘lt was something — a matter that interests you a little, and cannot be brought to a successful result without your aid.’ * Oh, you know that in all respects you can count upon me, dear Armande,’ replied Madame de Targy, heariily. ‘ But what is it?’ * Why, this. My lawyer wrote me confidentially that there was a seat on the Bourse for sale. I asked him, when I went away, to let me know if this should happen.’ ‘ Well ?’ asked Madame de Targy, totally at a loss to understand what this preamble could mean. ‘ Because,’ faltered Armande, with a pleading look in her dark blue eyes, ‘I thought that perhaps it might suit your son.’ Madame de Targy looked up quickly. ‘ My son ?’ ‘Yes. Why not? He bus now acquired an excellent knowledge of business. They tell me so at the b ink.’ * Where, thanks to you, my dear, he has been able to retain his position.’ Armande gave a half impatient shrug of her shoulders. ‘ They are delighted with bis intelligence and aptitude,’ she continued. ‘lf, instead of remaining a simple clerk, he were to go into business, he would undoubtedly succeed, and how much that would be for both of you. ‘ Possibly But, my dear Armande, a seat on the Bourse costs a large sum of money.’ Armande leaned forward and took her old friend’s delicate hand in both of her own. * My dear Madame de Targy,’ she said, with the greatest earnestness, and her voice trembling a little with emotion, ‘ I would like, as much as possible, to avoid alius ona to the past, which holds for us both, for me as well as for you, so many painful memories. But I must recall to you that I was, wholly against my will. Heaven knows ! the cause of all the disasters that have overwhelmed you and your son. Monsieur de Targy atoned for an error that was not his own with the happiness of bis life. As soon as I was a widow and the mistress of my own actions, one of my first

thoughts was to repair, as much as possible, so crying an injustice. But how could Ido it? I would have been only too nappy to return him that fortune which he considered it his duty to place in my hands ; but knowing your son as well as 1 did, I feared not only to be r»fused, but that my offer would offend him.’

* You were right, my dear,’ said Madame de Targy, softly. * Then I tried to think of some way in which I could be useful to him, without hurting hie feelings, and I believe that I have found it. You must induce him, dear madam, to purchase this seat, and accept from me as a loan, the necessary sum to pay for it. It is the simplest thing in the world ; he can repay mo from his profits. Does not my proposition seem to you a very reasonable one.'

Madame de Targy’s eyes were full of tears, as they rested upon the fair face of the young widow, so full of generous enthusiasm.

* Such an offer, my dear Armande,' she said, 'is what might have been expected from your kind heart, and I acknowledge that, as far as I am concerned, I would be willing to accept your loan. But, with Henri it is a different matter. I don’t know what he would say.’ 'But why should he not accept!' exclaimed the baroness, persistently. 'What rea-on can he offer for not doing so. *Ah I’ with a shade of sadness, 'perhaps he would be unwilling to accept any service from me personally.’ * From you, personally ?’ cried Madame de Targy. * What nonsense I How could you think such a thing as that?’ Armande Bushed as she replied with some embarrassment:

* He treats me, it seems to me, in a very singular manner. One would say, that in spite of himself he feeh still a little rancour against me as the cause of his troubles, and, especially, since my mourning. During the settlement of the affairs at the bank, to which he applied himself with so much zeal, you have no idea how cold his attitude toward me was. Ido not mean that he was not always courteous and devoted to my interests, but it seems to me as if it were painful for him to meet me.’ As Madame de Targy listened to these words, a new idea suddenly entered her brain, a hope that made her heart beat faster. Perhaps, after all. there was a new and brighter future for that son she so dearly loved. • My dear,’ she said affectionately, 'you are certainly mistaken. I know that he has every sympathy and respect tor you in the world.’

Armande smiled sadly. * I wish I could b- lieve it,’ she said, 'but at all events, I beseech you, use all your influence to induce him to accept what I propose, and I shall be very happy.' Madame de Targy drew the lovely girl, for she was scarcely more than that, toward her, and kissed her on the forehead.

* You are one of the dearest girls I know,’ she murmured.

'Please tell him,’ continued Armande, * that, in permitting me to render him this little service, he does not inconvenience me in the least. He knows that, he knows my fortune. And, moreover, tell him, in order to remove any lingering scruple that he may have, that the wealth of thia earth, for which I have never cared much, is of less consequence Io me than ever. I intend to abandon the world.* Madame de Targy started.

* What do you mean ?’ she asked, in bewilderment. 'You, surely, are not contemplating entering a convent.’

* Not exactly that,’ replied Armande, with a faraway look in her sapphire eves, * that is, I do not intend to take the black veil. but. I have almost resolved to become a sister of charity. Why is it not the best fate for me? I have no children, no near relatives. What better future can I have than to make a family of all those who suffer ?’

* But,’ exclaimed Madame de Targy, both alarmed and pained, * you are so young. No one can toll what the future may have in store for you. You can still begin life all over again.’

* Life has been one long disappointment to me,* replied Armande, with a sigh. * I renounce it.’

Madame de Targy regarded her fixedly, as if endeavouring to read her inmost heart.

* So, my dear child,’ she said, slowly, * there is nothing, and no one at> aches you to this world, no one whom you may regret having abandoned ?’ Armande shook her head, sorrowfully. 'Are you very sure ?’ persisted Madame de Targy. * What is the use of hopeless attachments ?’ returned the young widow, a look of sorrow and mortification contracting her brow.

Madame de Targy laughed softly. The ambiguous words told her much, and her fears were eot at rest.

'You do not mean me,’ she said, alyly, * when you say that, for you know how dearly I love you.*

Armande waa oilent for a moment aa if fearful to betray too much, and then she ■aid. timidly : 'Oh. no. I am aure of your affection.’ 'Are there other, that you mean, then, my dear?’ aeked Madame de Targy. with the gentleneea and tetiderne** a mother might have ueed in interrogating her daughter. Armande waa evidently greatly troubled. Her cheeks were crimson, her lipa trembled and there was juat a suspicion of tears about her lashes. 'I am afraid so,' she murmured, in a scarcely audible voice. 'We women are rarely mistaken, you know, in matters of that sort.' Madame de Targy was aatiafied. She thought she understood the whole affair, now ; and her maternal heart swelled with pride and joy. • Sometimes, we are. however,’ she said, meaningly, ' when we are too modest. I think I know whom you mean, and you are mistaken.’ Here, the good woman allowed her desires to get the better of her judgment. • How could any one remain long insensible to the charming qualites of mind and person that you possess.’ Armande knew that her secret was suspected, if not discovered ; but it was a comfort to her sad heart to have a confidante. ' The one uf whom we speak,' she said, with downcast ayes and fluttering heart, • does not look upon me. I am afraid, with the same indulgence that you do, his heart i-> faithful to his first love, and—’ • But,’ interrupted Madame de Targy, eagerly, • that is but a memory that must eventually be effaced, especially since it is a memory with so much bitterness connected with it.’ Armande rose, as if half fearful to prolong the conversation. ‘lt is time for me to go,’ she said. •Good bve, dear, dear Madame de Targy.’ ‘ But, why not remain to dinner ? The doctor will be delighted to see you, lam sure ’ Armande hesitated a moment. • Unfortunately, it is impossible,’ she said. 'I have an engagement in town tonight, and I must return by the next train.' Madame de Targy thought it prudent not to insist, and, it was with a radiant face that she watched the graceful, black-robed figure of the young widow, until it hsd disappeared amid the foliage in a turning of the walk. The good woman’s heart was lighter than it had been for many a day. Through a rift in the clouds, she saw a ray of the sunlight of hope. Poor Henri ! Surely lie had suffered enouub. Why should not happiness come to him, at last, in the love of this noble woman. Surely, he could not long be indifferent to her beauty, intelligence, and goodness. Full of the project, that night, while the doctor was smoking his cigar in the garden, she found an opportunity to say to Henri, in an indifferent manner : 'By the way, I had a very interesting caller to-day.’ • Ah, who was that ?’ ' Armande Chevrial.’ • Indeed I Has she returned from Dieppe ?’ ' Yes,’ said Madame de Turgy, watching him narrowly out of the corner of her eye. • She returned yesterday, and she passed the afternoon with me to-day. And in the course of our conversation she told me that there was a seat on the Bourse for sale.’ • Yes?’ said Henri interrogatively, as hie mother paused, apparently for a reply. ' What do you think of it?’ •Think of it?’ retorted Henri. 'Why, my dear mother, how can it concern me? You inivht as well tell mo that the chateau of Versailles was for sale.’ • Would you not like to have a seat on the Bourse ?' ' What a question ! Of course I would. I would naturally prefer to make a hundred thousand francs a year to drawing a salary of five thousand. But for me to think of a seat on the Bourse is very much like a child longing for the moon.’ •Not necesstrily.’ said Madame de Targy, slowly. 'Armande offers it to you. She proposes to lend you the necessary sum to purchase the seat. You will pay her back ; of course that i* clearly understood.' Henri was silent lor a moment. • Did she come for that express purpose ?' he a-ked at last. 'Yes. What do you think of the proposition ?’ It was twilight, and tho lights had not yet been brought in, so it was too dark for her to see his expiession clearly. •What do you think of it, mother?’ he asked, quietly. 'I do not think you would do wrong to accept it.’ 'No, certainly I should not do wrong, but, it seems to me, lhat it would not be a very nice thing to do, all the same. As a rule, and they are right, men do not like to accept favours from women. It is a reversal of relations lhat is unnatursl, not to say repulsive ; and it is apt to give rise to evil suspicions. On your sccount, my dear mother, I am sorry to refuse this chance to

Achieve fortune, but—l have Buffered much, and I have lost all except my honour ; and I wish to keep that intact, without even the shadow of a stain. lam sure, mother, that you approve of my resolution.’ * Mont assuredly, my dear boy. I think your scruples are most honourable, but pardon me if I say that I think you carry them too far. It is possible to exaggerate anything, even a point of honour.' * What, mother,’ said Henri, smiling faintly, and coming over and sitting beside her in the gathering dusk, * you, who are so scrupulously delicate in all your thoughts and actions, say that to me ?’ * My dear boy,’ she replied, half-jestingly, half-seriously, 'when have you seen a mother too scrupulously delicate, as you call it, when her children were in question ? Never in the world. But still, in this case, really you exaggerate ; you are wrong ; without sufficient reason, you will cruelly hurt and mortify Madame Chevrial. Now, be honest about it. If an offer were to come from any one else, would you refuse it? No. And you will not accept it from her. because, for one reason or another you do not like her ; because you cannot forget that she is the origin of all your misfortunes ; because your heart is full of rancour and dislike toward her. That is the truth.’

Madame de Targy did not bolieve all this in the slightest degree, but, in pursuit of her project, she was exercising diplomacy to draw from Henri an expression of his real feelings. Her words certainly had the effect of thoroughly astonishing the young man.

* What are you saying, mother?’ he exclaimed. 'On the contrary, I feel for her the warmest admiration and friendship, and have done so for a long time.’

* Ah !’ ejaculated Madame de Targy, as if not wholly convinced. * For I have not told you all, dear mother.’ continued Henri. • When I allowed yon to believe that I was happy and well treated in the employment our sudden ruin forced me to accept under Baron Chevrial, I deceived you. Never was there a slavery harsher, more bitter than that I was forced to submit to. Tho man is no more. His end was almost tragical, and I must force myself to forget and forgive, but it is difficult to do so. Beneath his outside courtesy was a constant sneer. He was a brute and a tyrant.

No ; despite the horrible necessity to which I was reduced to gain mv daily bread in his employ, I would a thousand times have cast his pretended charity in hie face, if I had not been helped to bear my lot by the sympathy and pity of that angel, whose sufferings from the same hand were greater than mine. And yet you say that I do not like her.*

Madame de Targy listened with a happy smile which the darkness hid. Surely this was encouraging for her little plot, and she was embo dened to speak more clearly. 'Then why do you treat her in such an icy fashion ? Why not let her suspect the sentiments of gratitude you feel for her? She might be glad to know them.* • Why ? Cannot you guess ? Because I might be misunderstood ; because she has influence, naturally, with the heads of the bank, and she might suspect me of an attempt to curry favour.* Madame de Turgy was silent for a moment, and then she said, with sudden resolution.

• There is no need for you to curry favour with her. She knows you, respects and trusts you. Her life as well as yours has been a sad one, but it is not too late for you both to find happiness. Oh ! Henri, my son, if that should come about, how overjoyed I should be. Do not let a foolish pride stand in the way.’

As he heard these words from his mother’s lips. De Targy was filled with a horrified astonishment. Was it possible that she so little understood him that she could conceive for a moment of his contemplating a second marriage. Painful as it was for him to speak on the subject, such an idea must be destoyed at once and forever.

• Mother,’ he said, in low, tense tones that struck a chill to his listener's heart, * hear me, and once and for nil understand me. Such a thing as you hint at is beyond the range of possibilities. Leaving Armande Chevrial out of the question, who. I am sure, has no other feeling for me than that of friendship, I—l have loved once and shall never love again. The day —the day Marcella left me my heart died. If you Inve me, never speak of this again.’ And, as if unable to trust himself further, he turned hurriedly and left the room.

Poor Madame de Targy. The tears welled up in her eyes as she thought of her charming castles in the air thus scattered in ruins.

CHAPTER XV, IN SPITE OF ALL.

Armande Chevrial returned to Dieppe, her generous mission a failure, and her heart heavy within her. With alt the good motives in the world, and the means to carry out ones plans, it is not always possible to help those who suffer, and do good to those we love ; and it is especially difficult in the case of a woman who desires to hold out a helping hand to a man. De Targy’s objections to accept the baroness’ offer were well founded. Rightly or wrongly the so-called stronger sex revolts from receiving aid from the weaker, and—the world is censorious. Henri had been to see Madame Chevrial before her departure, and had said to her, very frankly: * My dear madam, my mother has told me of your kind thoughts for me. lam more deeply grateful than 1 can say, but it is really impossible for me to accept, even from you, so considerable a loan.’ ‘ I am very sorry,’ replied Armande, simply. She made no attempt to urge the point, as she realised that to do so would be useless, and a source of pain to them both. Her whole heart, had gone out to Henri de Targy, whose honour and truth she knew so well. Had things been different he might and probably would have learned to love this woman, who was so worthy of him in every way. But circumstances, destiny, fate, call it what you will, had been unpropitious, and the chance for happiness was missed, as, alas ! is too often the case in a world which strikes us all at times as if it were misgoverned. •Of all sad words of tongue or pen The saddest are these-it might have been.’

One afternoon, three or four days after Armande’s visit, Madame de Targy was in the conservatory, busy with scissors nipping off the dead leaves of plants. Doctor Chesnel was an enthusiastic lover of flowers, and would go miles and spend fabulous amounts to obtain some rare orchid or exotic plant. To this lonely old bachelor, his flowers were

like children, and he lavished on them his tenderest care.

The conservatory extended all one aide of the drawing-room, and was famous for its wonderful collection. It was a proof of the doctor's affection for and trust in Madame de Targy, that he allowed her to care for his darings.

As she worked, stopping now and then to inhale the ndour of some marvellous rose or stately lily, Madame de Targy sang softly to herself snatches of songs that had been popular in her youth. Suddenly she became conscious of the presence of some one near her, and looking up, she saw the master of the house standing in one of the curtained arches that opened into the drawing-room. * You are home early,’ she said, with a smile.

‘Yes,’ was the response, * I wish to speak to you.’ There was something grave in the doctor’s manner and tone that arrested her attention, and it was with a vague presentiment of evil that she lay down her shears, drew off her gardening gloves, and followed him into tho room beyond. * What is it?’ she asked, anxiously. The doctor did not answer for a moment. He seemed troubled, and at a loss how to begin.

*My poor friend,* he murmured at last, in a tone full of commiseration.

Madame de Targy, now really alarmed, caught him by the arm. * What has happened ?’ she exclaimed. * Summon up all your courage !' replied the doctor, laying his hand upon here with a firm grasp, *By some fatality, I seem to be always the messenger to bring you bad news.’

' Bad nows 1’ echoed Madame de Targy, wiih a quickening of the breath. 'But what is it? Tell me quickly. It is not Henri? No, he was here but a moment ago. What is it ? See ! lam calm. Speak !’. ' Marcelle,' began the doctor; but no sooner was the name uttered than he was interrupted by a low cry from the horrified woman beside him.

•Ah I’ she gasped. • Marcelle is alive I’ * Yes,’ said the doctor, in a low voice. 'But this is terrible I What does it mean ? When did you hear it?’ * About an hour ago. This letter was

brought to tne at my office in Paris. ’ As he spoke he drew an envelope from his pocket and extended it to her. Madame de Targy opened the letter with a trembling hand. *My Uod I My God !’ she faltered, raising to the doctor a face convulsed with varied emotions. ‘is it possible! Is it possible! Here take it ; read it. 1 cannot ! I cannot!' And she sank down upon a chair, com pletely overcome, and suddenly ae weak as a child. The doctor, adjusting his eye-glasses, read slowly and with much feeling, ae follows : * My Dear Doctor, —It is a despairing woman wno now appeals to your old friendship, to your charity. Have pity, and make them have pity. too. I have been wrong, oh, so wrong ! but I have been punished, too, and I return so broken, so repentant. If you but knew how many times I have regretted that I did not perish in the flames, as was repotted, with all those poor unfortunates. Their anguish was nothing to what I have sutiered, to what I sutler still. If you cannot obtain pardon for me, do not come, do not answer ; 1 shall understand. And I swear to you that I shall find the courage which has hitherto failed me. To-morrow, those whom I have so sorely wronged, and yet so deeply loved, will be forever delivered' from poor * M arcki.le.’ As the doctor read these words Madame de Targy’s expression, instead of softening, grew harder, sterner and colder. When he had finished, she exclaimed, almost savagely: * If she carried out her threat, she would do well, but she will not do it.’ 'Can you afford to run the risk !’ asked the doctor, quietly. But Madame de Targy would not listen. All she could think of was what her son bad sutiered already, and what this unexpected resurrection would make him suffer i.i the future.

* She will not kill herself,’ she reiterated, doggedly. * You need give yourself no uneasiness on that account. As for receiving her and imposing upon my son the shame and agony of her presence—Never I Never ! Never 1’

* Your eon, perhaps, may not agree with you.’

* My eon,’ exclaimed Madame de Targy. vehemently. *Do you think that I propose to tell him of thia ? How can you imagine such a thing? Poor boy, hn has suffered too much already ; and by my fault. Once, already, I had the weakness and cowardice to tell him a secret, which was killing me, to be suie, but I had better have died than have ruined him by the disclosure. But this time, I keep my secret, and if it is a crime to do so I accept the consequences.’

* That is for you to decide.’ replied the doctor, very gravely, * but do you think that 1 can keep ei'ence !’ Madame de Targy started ; then, rising hastily from her chair, she seized the doctor’s hand, and cried in eager, terrified tones:

* Ah, my friend, I implore you, I beseech you—do not speak. If you do not wish to make me forget all your goodness, if you do not wish to make me curse your friendship which has been so dear to me, let me have my way in this ; leave me free to act as I please. I will answer for all. I will take all upon myself, I tell you. Besides, she will not kill herself, and you know it well.’

It was very difficult for the doctor to resist the pleading of this woman whom he had loved in his youth, and whom, perhaps, after all these years, he loved still. But his duty seemed clear to him, and he answered, gently but firmly : * If she does not, her fate will be even a worse one ; you condemn her to sink to the level of the lowest of women.'

Madame de Targy dropped his hands. * Is she not so already !’ she exclaimed, bitterly. *Do we know? And, then, there are degrees. Will you be the one to push her on her downward course! What will your conscience say to you !’ *My conscience 1 It will tell me that I have saved my son.’ * And God ? since you believe in him.’ Beside herself with anger and misery, she retorted with stinging emphasis : * What is that to you, since you do not believe in Him ?’ The doctor shook his head compassionately, and said in low, distinct tones, with all the tenderness one would use in chiding a well-beloved child :

* Is this the way to make me do so !'

She stared at him with wide-opened, frightened eyes, and then, turning abruptly, she walked away to the window, and stood gazing out upon the garden below.

The doctor wailed quietly ; he felt that his point had been won. Minute after minute passed, and no sound was heard in the room eave the droning of the bees, ae they darted in and out among the honeyeucklee that framed in the windows.

Finally, the woman, in whose heart a terrible struggle had been raging, came slowly back to where the doctor stood. Her face was pale, but calm and composed. * You are right,' she eaid. * Pardon me, and thank you. It was the mother who rebelled, but the Christian has been recalled to her duty. Where is she! Where must Igo! lam ready.’ ‘Ah, I find my old friend again!’ exclaimed the doctor, warmly, an expression of relief passing over his countenance. * She is close by, in my carriage at the end of the avenue, awaiting her fate.’ * Bring her to me,' said Madame de Targy, briefly.

In five minutes — a five minutes that se« med an eternity to Madaine de Targy, Doctor Chesnel returned, leading a slender, dark-robed figure —Marcelle, but how changed from the brilliant young beauty who, only a few years before, had taken all Paris captive ! Pale, wan, and haggard, with great brown eyes gazing out from her whi o face as if in a dream of hopeless misery, she advanced into tho room to where Madame de Targy stood, motionle.-s and with averted face. Then, releasing herself from tne doctor’s supporting arm, she sank on her knees at the feet of the woman to whom she bad been the cause of so much unhappiness. * Ah, madam, I have suffered so much 1’ she murmured, in a voice suffocated with emotion.

Without turning her bead, Madame de Targy slowly let her hand fall until it rested upon the head of the kneeling woman. With a sob, Marcelle seized it, and covered it with kisses. * Ah, madam !' she said, with the tears streaming down her cheeks. * How good you are. How 1 thank you for consenting to see me.’

* Rise !’ said Madame de Targy, with an evident effort.

* No, not yet 1 not before I have told you how wicked 1 ha/e been, madam, but se repentant, so humble, so unhappy, Ab, madam, if you could have seen me, after my eyes were opened tomy folly, alone, povertystricken, ill, at the other end of the world, you would have had pity. Ah, in those terrible hours, if you could know with what an agony of longing my heart turned to that little apartment I had so weakly, so shamefully, abandoned, and, how it seemed to me that if I could leturn there for just one day near you and—and him, not as his wife, not as your daughter, but as the servant of you both, how it seemed to me that that would be Paradise.’

She stopped, her sobs choking her so that she could not proceed. Deeply moved, Madame de Targy hesitated a moment, and then, with a sudden impulse, she stooped, raised the unhappy girl, and clasped her to her breast.

•My daughter I’ * Mother !’ and with a glad cry, she clung convulsively to the noble woman, whose religion taught her to forgive. The doctor cleared his throat, and, with a suspicious moisture in his kindly eyes, walked away to the window. * There, there, my child,’ whispered Madame de Targy, soothingly. * Be calm, you must not waste your strength. All is not over, yet.’ Marcelle raised her head with a shudder. ‘No. 1 know it I I know it I’ she faltered. * And I am so afraid of him. So afraid that he will repulse me, that he will not even see me. Oh ! madam, implore him to listen to me. His harshness would kill me. I know—l know that it would be better for every one. it I were to die, but I cannot, I cannot without being forgiven. ‘ Poor child I’ The doctor turned suddenly from the window with a warning gesture. * Be careful,’ he said, quickly. ‘Henri is coming up the path from the river.’ Marcelle started from her mother-in-law's embrace, and gave a quick glance around, like a hunted animal seeking shelter. ‘Great Heaven I’ exclaimed Madame de Targy. ‘He must not see her thus without preparation. He must not.’ * No,’ said the doctor, taking Marcelle,

who seemed paralysed with fear, by tba arm. * Into the conservatory. Quick.' Sue was scarcely hidden behind a plant, thick with foliage, when the door was thrown open and Henri entered the room. •Mother,’ he said, 'come down to the river bank. It is beautiful there thia afternoon. Why, doctor,' perceiving Cheenel, * you are back early to day.* The doctor looked at Madame de Targy, and Madame de Targy looked at the doctor, but neither of them spoke. Each appeared to be waiting for the other. Henri noticed their embarras-ment, and at 'once realised that something unusual had occurred.

* What is it, mother ?' he said. ‘What has happened, doctor? What is the matter with you both ?' ‘Your mother will tell you,' replied the doctor, pulling vigorously at his grey mou-tache, to hide his agitation. Thus forced to make the revelation she so dreaded. Madame de Targy summoned up all her courage, and began, with her eyes fixed steadily on Henri: • My son, since you left me an hour ago, an event has happened which will once more disturb the current of our lives—a very grave event, ono which we were far from expecting and which imposes upon us <a great and painful duty. Marcello ’

She paused. In mute amazement Henri gazed alternately at the doctor and his mother. Then, a ghastly pallor overspread his face, and through hie white lips came the scarcely audible question : * Marcelle is alive ?'

‘Yes,’ said the doctor, extending the letter he had read to Madame de Targy. Henri mechanically took the paper, and then, with, a visible effort to control his emotion, he read it slowly through from beginning to end. • Pity,’ he said, with an accent of bitterness, crushing the letter in his hands. * Well, yes. Go to see her, mother. Doctor, will you be good enough to accompany my mother? I—l cannot.’ The doctor laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder.

‘I brought her with me,’ he said. ‘She is hete.’

•She! Here! Already! In thia house ?’ ‘Yes,’said Madame de Targy, ‘VVillyou see her now ? I beg you to do so.’ • No, no 1’ exclaimed Henri, with a pass onate gesture. ‘ Not now—later. Tomorrow, perhaps. I must have time to collect myself. To morrow.’ He was evidently suffering terribly. The

thought that the wile he had so dearly loved, loved still. Heaven help him ! was alive, alite and beneath the same roof as himself, and yet that there was between them a gu f as well nigh impassable as that of Death itself —that thought wrung hie

heart as in a vice. He could not see her yet—it was impossible. Nor could she ever be to him what she had been once. He might pirdoo but he could not forget. That must be clearly understood * Doctor,’ he continued, steadying his voice, 'see to it that she does not misunderstand the feeling that dictates my conduct toward her. She does not imagine, I suppose, that she can resume with my mother and myself the place she once occupied. Tell her that she can never be anything in my house except a stranger.’ * My dear boy,' said the doctor, sadly, * when you see her, you will be convinced of the sincerity of her repentance. When you see how frail she is, how she has suffered from sorrow and poverty, you will be as touched as we have been.’ ‘Do not expect it!’ replied Henri, his brow contracted into a sombre trown. Madame de Targy, as she heard these words, thought with a pang ot the poor girl hidden behind the foliage, and to whom each word of the conversation must bo distinctly audible. ■ My son,’ she said, imploringly, ‘do not be generous by halves. L ston to your heart, which has loved her so much, and listen only to it.’ *My heart, mother ! It is because I have loved hor so much that the thought of her fault, the memory of her crime, seems to harden my heart to stone. I consent to receive her bonenth my roof because humanity, charity, duty commands me to do so. I receive her to eave her from another crime, or to remove her from the lowest degradation of poverty. But, ask no more nf me. To do more would be outrage, madness !’ And he threw himrelf down in a chair and covered hie face with his hands.

Madame de Targy approached Doctor Chetnel, who stood leaning against the mantel-piece, moodily regarding the unhappy young man, and feeling that this was a complication which he was powerless to straighten out. * What shall I do? whispered Madame de Targy, grasping his arin. W hat shall I do? Anil I pity hor to much.' Doctor Cheenel sighed deeply.

*I do not know,' he admitted. * I understand Henri's feelings. Perhaps it would be better not tn receive her at all. It would be an impossible life for you all.*

* Nevertheless, 1 shall make one more effort.’ And she moved toward the place where Henri sat motionless, with bowed head. * Henri,' she said, and the young man raised hie face, all drawn with suffering. * Henri, it is not for me to blame you. I have not the right to do so ; for my first thought, when I heard just now of the return of this unhappy girl, was one of hatred, savage, criminal hatred. One is not always master of one’s first impulses. But it is our duty to stifle these first cries of passion and selfishness, and to appeal to higher inspirations to govern our conduct. You know this as well as 1, my boy, you who have already sacrificed all that you had in the world to the demands ot justice. But there is, Henri, something higher than even justice, there is a duty, a virtue more worthy still a soul like yours—l mean, forgiveness. Forgive her.’ Henri rose to his feet. There was evidently a violent struggle going on within him.

•No,’ he said, at last. ‘No, I cannot. There is a spectre between us, that tenor. lam not a saint. 1 am a man. And I cannot, I will not, receive as my wife Juliani’s mistress !' For a second, after these words, there was silence : and then, a low cry made them all turn. Erect, beneath one of the arches of the conservatory, stood Marcello. She had cast aside her hat, her hair had become unloosened, and streamed down her back a mass of golden bronze. Her face was ashen, her lips tremb ing, and her gaze was fixed upon Henri, her whole soul burning in her great dark eyes. Henri struggled against the emotion that seized hold of him. Pale as death at the apparition of the woman he had adored, he stood like a statue, moved to the very depths of his being. She advanced until she was within a few steps of him, and then, in a low voice, every accent of which was distinctly audible throughout the room, she said : * Juliani’s mistress ! No. No, not that. I was weak, foolish, vain, ungrateful, all that and mnre, but there is one crime I have not been guilty of. I have been faithful to you. I swear it !’

It was the truth, and not one of the three who listened to these words doubted them. Instinctively, they felt that in one respect at least they had wronged her. A great weight seemed lifted from Henri's heart.

‘Marcelle!’ he cried, passionately. *ls this true ?’

*On my soul ! I have loved only you.' With a gesture of unutterable love and longing he opened wide his arms. She looked at him with staring, terrified eyes, as if she did not understand, as if she could not believe that she was really forgiven. * Marcelle 1’ he s .id, softly. * Come.’ As by magic, her torpor vanished, and with a glad, thrilling cry, she sprang forward and was strained to his breast, hie burning lips seeking her icy ones. The husband and wife, after months of torture, anguish, and despair, were united at last, never to be separated again.

In the villa at Asnieres, with Doctor Cheene! and the dowager Madamede Targy live Henri and Marcelle. The doctor insisted on it, declaring that he was lonely and his life would be miserable if thev did not do as he wished. * Needs must, I suppose, when a certain gentleman drives,’ laughed Henri ; and so it was settled. After their stormy past, they are happy. Henri will probably never be rich, but he is making a comfortable living, and the quiet, domestic life he lives just suits him. Marcelle loves her generous husband, with a love she never felt even in the days of their prosperity. All her longings for social triumphs have vanished, and rhe is content, caring little be she rich or poor, provided she shares the fortunes of her busband. The doctor is as kind of heart and sarcastic of tongue as ever. Madame de Targv, free from all cares and troubles, is happy in the happiness of those she loves. Will the romance which those two good people missed in their youth, return to them in the autumn of their lives ? Has the curtain fallen for them, or is the play only just beginning ? Who knows ? In the poorest quarters of Paris, where vice, poverty, and misery abound, can be seen day after day, ministering to the unfortunate, a slender, sweet faced woman in the dark robes of a sister of charity. In a life of self-abnegation, of devotion to others. Sister Genevieve, known to the world as the Baroness Chevrial, has found, if not happiness, at least peace. The End.