ery
precaution has been taken to prevent our secret from escaping. Germain
has instructions to procure, while in Paris, two sets of baby linen
exactly similar. Assist him with your advice.

"'Your maternal heart, my sweet Valerie, may perhaps bleed at the
thought of being deprived of the innocent caresses of your child. You
will console yourself by thinking of the position secured to him by your
sacrifice. What excess of tenderness can serve him as powerfully as this
separation? As to the other, I know your fond heart, you will cherish
him. Will it not be another proof of your love for me? Besides, he will
have nothing to complain of. Knowing nothing he will have nothing to
regret; and all that money can secure in this world he shall have.

"'Do not tell me that this attempt is criminal. No, my well beloved, no.
The success of our plan depends upon so many unlikely circumstances, so
many coincidences, independent of our will, that, without the evident
protection of Providence, we cannot succeed. If, then, success crowns
our efforts, it will be because heaven decreed it.

"'Meanwhile I hope.'"

"Just what I expected," murmured old Tabaret.

"And the wretched man," cried Noel, "dares to invoke the aid of
Providence! He would make heaven his accomplice!"

"But," asked the old fellow, "how did your mother,--pardon me, I would
say, how did Madame Gerdy receive this proposition?"

"She would appear to have rejected it, at first, for here are twenty
pages of eloquent persuasion from the count, urging her to agree to it,
trying to convince her. Oh, that woman!"

"Come my child," said M. Tabaret, softly, "try not to be too unjust. You
seem to direct all your resentment against Madame Gerdy? Really, in my
opinion, the count is far more deserving of your anger than she is."

"True," interrupted Noel, with a certain degree of violence,--"true,
the count is guilty, very guilty. He is the author of the infamous
conspiracy, and yet I feel no hatred against him. He has committed a
crime, but he has an excuse, his passion. Moreover, my father has not
deceived me, like this miserable woman, every hour of my life, during
thirty years. Besides, M. de Commarin has been so cruelly punished,
that, at this present moment, I can only pardon and pity him."

"Ah! so he has been punished?" interrogated the old fellow.

"Yes, fearfully, as you will admit. But allow me to continue. Towards
the end of May, or, rather, during the first d