olster, not because he feared for his own
skin, but he thought it just as well to be ready in case of
trouble at the Chateau de Nesville. However, he did not fear
trouble again; the French armies were moving everywhere on the
frontier, and the spies, of course, had long ago betaken
themselves and their projects to the other bank of the Rhine.

The Marquis de Nesville himself felt perfectly secure, now that
the attempt had been made and had failed.

He told Jack so on the few occasions when he descended from his
room during the young fellow's visits. He made not the slightest
objections to Jack's seeing Lorraine when and where he pleased,
and this very un-Gallic behaviour puzzled Jack until he began to
comprehend the depths of the man's selfish absorption in his
balloons. It was more than absorption, it was mania pure and
simple, an absolute inability to see or hear or think or
understand anything except his own devices in the little bolted
chamber above.

He did care for Lorraine to the extent of providing for her every
want--he did remember her existence when he wanted something
himself. Also it was true that he would not have permitted a
Frenchman to visit Lorraine as Jack did. He hated two persons;
one of these was Jack's uncle, the Vicomte de Morteyn. On the
other hand, he admired him, too, because the vicomte, like
himself, was a royalist and shunned the Tuileries as the devil
shuns holy water. Therefore he was his equal, and he liked him
because he could hate him without loss of self-respect. The
reason he hated him was this--the Vicomte de Morteyn had
pooh-poohed the balloons. That occurred years ago, but he never
forgot it, and had never seen the old vicomte since. Whether or
not Lorraine visited the old people at Morteyn, he had neither
time nor inclination to inquire.

This was the man, tall, gentle, clean-cut of limb and feature,
and bearded like Jove--this was the man to whom Lorraine devoted
her whole existence. Every heart-beat was for him, every thought,
every prayer. And she was very devout.

This also was why she came to Jack so confidently and laid her
white hands in his when he sprang from his saddle, his heart in
flames of adoration.

He knew this, he knew that her undisguised pleasure in his
company was, for her, only another link that welded her closer to
her father. At night, often, when he had ridden back again, he
thought of it, and paled with resentment. At times he almost
hated her