ing that this return did not take place, he crept a little nearer, and soon distinguished the deeper shadow against the green of the ilex behind the bench. Again noiselessly withdrawing, the abbé retreated to a safe distance, and, sternly staring up at the walls of the château, seemed to question them of their secrets.
"Mademoiselle Salerne is posted as a spy there, or as a vidette to watch against surprises! That means that her mistress is out here with François! Shall I return, and force the truth from her by my authority as her confessor? or shall I wait and watch? Ha! what is that?"
It was a light in Valerie's window: it was Valerie herself looking down into the garden. Still moving noiselessly upon the soft mould of the garden-beds, the abbé crept in that direction, uncertain even yet as to the course proper for him to pursue; but infinitely relieved to perceive that Mademoiselle de Rochenbois was safe, and not in the commission of imprudences for which he might feel himself more or less accountable.
Truth to tell, Valerie had seldom passed so mauvais un quart d'heure as after reading François' note, nor had by any means resolved what to reply to it, when the town-clock struck twelve; and she felt, as Godiva did, as Cinderella did, that the moment of meditation was past, the moment of action had arrived. But what action? Godiva was governed by a grand motive, Cinderella by a grand passion and a fairy godmother; but poor little Valerie possessed neither grand motive, nor passion, nor godmother, in
