chance had placed before
this simple testimony of a sorrow now long past, deeply moved by the sad
tale of love, filled with tender pity for the dead Rafaella, her fellow
in youth and beauty and perhaps in destiny, finding in her heart the
tender impulse to kneel without a word, as if beside the grave of
a friend. The daylight's last rays streaming in through the window
illumined her bowed head.

I drew back, with a touch of awe.

M. Charnot appeared.

He went up to his daughter and tapped her on the shoulder. She rose with
a blush.

"What are you doing there?" he said.

Then he adjusted his glasses and read the Italian inscription.

"You really take unnecessary trouble in kneeling down to decipher a
thing like that. You can see at once that it's a modern panel, and of
no value. Monsieur," he added, turning to me, "I do not know what your
plans are, but unless you intend to sleep at Desio, we must be off, for
the night is falling."

We left the villa.

Out of doors it was still light, but with the afterglow. The sun was out
of sight, but the earth was still enveloped, as it were, in a haze of
luminous dust.

M. Charnot pulled out his watch.

"Seven minutes past eight. What time does the last train start, Jeanne?"

"At ten minutes to eight."

"Confusion! we are stranded in Desio! The mere thought of passing the
night in that inn gives me the creeps. I see no way out of it unless
Monsieur Mouillard can get us one of the Count's state coaches. There
isn't a carriage to be got in this infernal village!"

"There is mine, Monsieur, which luckily holds four, and is quite at your
service."

"Upon my word, I am very much obliged to you. The drive by moonlight
will be quite romantic."

He drew near to Jeanne and whispered in her ear:

"Are you sure you've wraps enough? a shawl, or a cape, or some kind of
pelisse?"

She gave a merry nod of assent.

"Don't worry yourself, father; I am prepared for all emergencies."

At half-past eight we left Desio together, and I silently blessed the
host of the Albergo dell' Agnello, who had assured me that the carriage
road was "so much more picturesque." I found it so, indeed.

M. Charnot and Jeanne faced the horses. I sat opposite to M. Charnot,
who was in the best of spirits after all the medals he had seen.
Comfortably settled in the cushions, careless of the accidents of the
road, with graphic and untiring forefinger, he undertook to describe his
travels in Greece