some conspiracy which threatens the safety of our secret. I shall be in Paris to-night, but too late to see you. To-morrow, at dusk, I shall be at the dear little pavilion, once more to be blest by a smile from the only eyes I love.—Gaston de Lancy."
"Rather a blundering epistle," muttered Raymond. "I should really have given him credit for something better. You will receive him to-morrow evening, madame?"
She knew so well the purport of this question that her hand almost involuntarily tightened on the little packet given her by Monsieur Blurosset, which she had held all this time, but she did not answer him.
"You will receive him to-morrow; or by to-morrow night all Paris will know of this romantic but rather ridiculous marriage; it will be in all the newspapers—caricatured in all the print-shops; Charivari will have a word or two about it, and little boys will cry it in the streets, a full, true, and particular account for only one sous. But then, as I said before, you are superior to your sex, and perhaps you will not mind this kind of thing."
"I shall see him to-morrow evening at dusk," she said, in a hoarse whisper not pleasant to hear; "and I shall never see him again after to-morrow."
"Once more, then, good night," says Raymond. "But stay, Monsieur begs you will take this opiate. Nay," he muttered with a laugh as she looked at him strangely, "you may be perfectly assured of its harmlessness. Remember, I have not been paid yet."
He bowed, and left the room. She did not lift her eyes to look at him as he bade her adieu. Those hollow tearless eyes were fixed on the letter she held in her left hand. She was thinking of the first time she saw this handwriting, when every letter seemed a character inscribed in fire, because his hand had shaped it; when the tiniest scrap of paper covered with the most ordinary words was a precious talisman, a jewel of more price than the diamonds of all the Cevennes.
The short winter's day died out, and through the dusk a young man, in a thick greatcoat, walked rapidly along the broad quiet street in which the pavilion stood. Once or twice he looked round to assure himself that he was unobserved. He tried the handle of the little wooden door, found it unfastened, opened it softly, and went in. In a few minutes he was in the boudoir, and by the side of Valerie. The girl's proud face was paler than when he had last seen it; and when he tenderly asked the reason of this change, she said,—
"I have been anxious about you, Gaston. You can scarcely wonder."
