stopped on viewing the tragic-comic face of Raoul, who was vexed at
having, in one day, surprised so many secrets.

"Oh, mademoiselle!" said he; "how can we repay your kindness?"

"Oh, we will balance accounts some day," said she. "For the present,
begone, M. de Bragelonne, for Madame de Saint-Remy is not over
indulgent; and any indiscretion on her part might bring hither a
domiciliary visit, which would be disagreeable to all parties."

"But Louise--how shall I know----"

"Begone! begone! King Louis XI. knew very well what he was about when he
invented the post."

"Alas!" sighed Raoul.

"And am I not here--I, who am worth all the posts in the kingdom? Quick,
I say, to horse! so that if Madame de Saint-Remy should return for
the purpose of preaching me a lesson on morality, she may not find you
here."

"She would tell my father, would she not?" murmured Raoul.

"And you would be scolded. Ah, vicomte, it is very plain you come from
court; you are as timid as the king. Peste! at Blois we contrive better
than that to do without papa's consent. Ask Malicorne else!"

And at these words the girl pushed Raoul out of the room by the
shoulders. He glided swiftly down to the porch, regained his horse,
mounted, and set off as if he had had Monsieur's guards at his heels.

CHAPTER 4. Father and Son.

Raoul followed the well-known road, so dear to his memory, which led
from Blois to the residence of the Comte de la Fere.

The reader will dispense with a second description of that habitation:
he, perhaps, has been with us there before, and knows it. Only, since
our last journey thither, the walls had taken a grayer tint, and the
brickwork assumed a more harmonious copper tone; the trees had grown,
and many that then only stretched their slender branches along the tops
of the hedges, now bushy, strong, and luxuriant, cast around, beneath
boughs swollen with sap, great shadows of blossoms of fruit for the
benefit of the traveler.

Raoul perceived, from a distance, the two little turrets, the dove-cote
in the elms, and the flights of pigeons, which wheeled incessantly
around that brick cone, seemingly without power to quit it, like the
sweet memories which hover round a spirit at peace.

As he approached, he heard the noise of the pulleys which grated under
the weight of the massy pails; he also fancied he heard the melancholy
moaning of the water which falls back again into the wells--a sad,
funereal, solemn