coachman. There was no time to lose. "Père Georgeot," said Madame to the ferryman, calling him by his name, can you save my daughter and myself?"
"Certainly!" he replied, as if almost insulted by the question.
"What must we do?" inquired Madame des Arcis.
"Place yourself upon my shoulders," replied the ferryman, "and put your arms about my neck. As for the little one, I will hold her in one hand, and swim with the other, and she shall not get drowned. It is but a short distance from here to the potatoes which grow in yonder field."
"And Jean?" asked Madame, meaning the coachman.
"Jean will be all right, I hope. If he holds on at the weir, I will return for him."
Père Georgeot struck out with his double burden, but he had over-estimated his powers. He was no longer young. The shore was farther off, the current stronger than he had thought. He struggled manfully, but was nearly swept away. Then the trunk of a willow, hidden by the water and the darkness, stopped him suddenly with a violent blow upon the forehead. Blood flowed from the wound and obscured his vision.
"Could you save my child if you had only her to convey?" asked the mother.
"I cannot tell, but I think so," said the ferryman.
The mother removed her arms from the man's neck, and let herself slip gently into the water.
When the ferryman had deposited Camille safely on terra firma, the coachman, who had been rescued by a peasant, helped him to search for the body of Madame des Arcis. It was found on the following morning, near the bank.
The discovery of the body of Madame des Arcis.
VI.
Camille's grief at her mother's loss was terrible to witness. She ran hither and thither, uttering wild, inarticulate cries, tearing her hair, and beating the walls. An unnatural calm succeeded these violent emotions; reason itself seemed well-nigh gone.
It was then that Uncle Giraud came to his niece's rescue. "Poor child!" said he, "she has at present neither father nor mother. With me she has always been a favourite, and I intend now to take charge of her for a time. Change of scene," said Uncle Giraud, "would do her a world of good." With the Chevalier's permission (obtained by letter), he carried off Camille to Paris. The Chevalier returned to Chardonneux, where he lived in deepest retirement, shunning every living being, a prey to grief and keen remorse.
A year passed heavily away. Uncle Giraud had as yet failed utterly to rouse Camille. She steadily refused to be in-
