over her head, came toward me with outstretched arms.
"Here you are at last, my beloved," she cried, seizing my hand. Her own was cold as ice and her features bore the pallor of death. I retreated to the wall.
"Holy Virgin! it is not he! Ah! Monsieur, are you the friend of Don Ottavio?"
At these words everything was made clear. Despite her pallor, the young woman had nothing of the air of a phantom. She cast down her eyes, a thing which ghosts never do, and held her two hands crossed before her in a modest attitude, which led me to believe that my friend Don Ottavio was not so much of a politician as I had given him credit for being, after all. In a word, the time had come for abducting the fair Lucrèce, and the only rôle that I was fated to play in the adventure was that of confidant.
Don Ottavio appeared upon the scene a moment after, disguised; the horses came arid we started. There was no passport for Lucrèce, but a woman, and a pretty woman at that, never inspires suspicion. There was one gendarme, however, who was inclined to raise difficulties. I told him that he was a brave fellow and that he certainly must have served under the great Napoleon. He did not deny it, and I made him a present of a portrait of that illustrious man, in gold. Then it was all plain sailing.
If I must give you the whole of this story, Don Ottavio, the traitor, had made the acquaintance of this charming person, who was sister to a certain Vanozzi, a wealthy farmer and a man of ill-repute as being a little of a liberal and a good deal of a smug-
