"Yes: come into the garden-house." And the abbé, smiling a little to himself at seeing the dependence of the pupil suddenly overtopping the self-assertion of the young noble, led the way into the tool-house, and produced from his pocket a phial of phosphorus, in those days as valuable an adjunct of wonder-work as in our time are cabinets with sliding-doors, wires, magnets, darkened rooms, and boundless credulity.
Dipping a splint of prepared wood in this phial, the abbé procured a light, at which François glanced rather apprehensively, but soon forgot in reading these few words, very badly written upon a crumpled bit of paper:—
"Gaston is not dead, and I am sure I hope he will not die; but until one knows, you must not be seen here. Hide yourself; efface yourself thoroughly. The abbé may tell me where. For my sake, François. VALERIE."
It was not very loving, it was not very definite: but it ended with "for my sake," and surely Valerie would never so enforce her behest unless she meant more than met the eye; and if, being his, she desired him to save himself for her sake— So far did François untangle the maze of his emotions, and then, turning to the impatient priest, said with a sigh,—
"Well then, mon père, I will depart for a while but whither? To my estates in Normandy?"
"The messengers of Monsieur le Comte would arrive there as soon as yourself, mon baron," replied the tutor, in a tone of more authority as he felt himself
