d have no one to
blame but himself, for though all sins bring their own punishment,
jealousy is undoubtedly one that can never be indulged in with impunity.
This, and much more to the same effect, Pere Yvon said, and the baron,
lying in an easy chair, listened patiently enough, partly because he was
very fond of the chaplain, and partly because he was so angry with
himself now for his folly that it was a relief to him to be blamed
roundly for it.

All that day the baroness wandered about the house in a vague, restless
way, unable to settle to anything, and trying to amuse herself by
consulting with the nurse as to how they should go and fetch the baby
back when they discovered where it was. She ate little or nothing, and
after another sleepless night looked so worn and ill that the baron sent
for a doctor, who came and urged strongly that the baby should be sent
for at once, or he would not be answerable for the consequences; the
suspense and anxiety were telling so on the baroness that if the strain
lasted much longer he feared she would have an attack of brain fever.

On hearing this the baron was dreadfully alarmed, and telegraphed to
Leon's agent at Havre to let him know immediately he heard from M. Leon
de Thorens, who had sailed two nights before in the Hirondelle for a
cruise in the Channel. The agent telegraphed back that he knew no more
than M. le Baron at present, but so soon as he received any further
information he would let the baron know. This did not reassure the
baroness, who had taken it into her head that something had happened to
the yacht, and not all Arnaud's promises that the moment he knew where
the child was he would go himself and bring her back could comfort the
poor, anxious little mother, who, with pale cheeks and black marks round
her great brown eyes, which were always large but looked bigger than
ever now that they had not been closed since the baby left, wandered
about the chateau, looking like a picture of despair.

This lasted for nearly a week, and then came a telegram from the agent
to say the Hirondelle was lost in a fog off the east coast of England
with all hands drowned. The baron was alone when the telegram was handed
to him, and the news was such a shock to him that he read the message
over again and again before the words, though they were burnt indelibly
into his brain, conveyed their full meaning to his mind. Slowly he
grasped the terrible truth; poor Leon, the life of the