ry....

At first he could remember nothing. The windows were open; the heavy
curtains which shaded them moved lazily in the breeze; a shaft of
sunlight that came in between them fell upon the polished surface of the
marble mantel. He examined with languid curiosity some trifles that
stood there--a pair of Dresden figures, a blue Sevres vase of graceful
shape, a bronze clock with gilded rose-wreathed Cupids; and then raised
his eyes to the two portraits which hung above. One of these was
familiar enough--the dark melancholy face of Felix Arnault, whose
portrait by different hands and at different periods of his life hung
in nearly every room of La Glorieuse. The blood surged into his face and
receded again at sight of the other. Oh, so strangely like! The yellow
hair, the slumberous eyes, the full throat clasped about with a single
strand of coral. Yes, it was she! He lifted himself on his elbow. He was
in bed. Surely this was the room into which she had drawn him with her
eyes. Did he sink on the threshold, all his senses swooning into
delicious faith? Or had he, indeed, in that last moment thrown himself
on his knees by her couch? He could not remember, and he sank back with
a sigh.

Instantly Madame Arnault was bending over him. Her cool hands were on
his forehead. "_Dieu merci!_" she exclaimed, "thou art thyself once
more, _mon fils_."

He seized her hand imperiously. "Tell me, madame," he demanded--"tell
me, for the love of God! What is she? Who is she? Why have you shut her
away in this deserted place? Why--"

She was looking down at him with an expression half of pity, half of
pain.

"Forgive me," he faltered, involuntarily, all his darker suspicions
somehow vanishing; "but--oh, tell me!"

"Calm thyself, Richard," she said, soothingly, seating herself on the
side of the bed, and stroking his hand gently. Too agitated to speak, he
continued to gaze at her with imploring eyes. "Yes, yes, I will relate
the whole story," she added, hastily, for he was panting and struggling
for speech. "I heard you fall last night," she continued, relapsing for
greater ease into French; "for I was full of anxiety about you, and I
lingered long at my window watching for you. I came at once with
Marcelite, and found you lying insensible across the threshold of this
room. We lifted you to the bed, and bled you after the old fashion, and
then I gave you a tisane of my own making, which threw you into a quiet
sleep. I have watched