he is known by that of her mother's family except by those poor minions
of the Court who endeavor, with their fake affectation, to revive the
graceful pleasantries of Marie Antoinette's time, and they call her La
Rose de Provence."

"La Bose de Provence," cried I, springing up from my chair, "the sister
of Charles!" while a thrill of ecstasy ran through my frame,--followed
the moment after by a cold, faint feel,--and I sank almost breathless in
the chair.

"Ha!" cried the abbe, leaning over me, and holding the lamp close to
my face, "what--" And then, as he resumed his place, he slowly muttered
between his teeth, "I did not dream of this!"

Not a word was now spoken by either. The abbe, sat mute and motionless,
his eyes bent upon the floor, and his hands clasped before him. As
for me, every emotion of hope and fear, joy and sorrow, succeeded one
another in my mind; and it was only as I thought of De Beauvais once
more that a gloomy despair spread itself before me, and I remembered
that he loved her, and how the abbe, hinted his passion was returned.

"The day is breaking," said D'Ervan, as he opened the shutter and looked
out; "I must away. Well, I hope I may tell my poor friend De Beauvais
that you 'll not refuse his request. Charles de Meudon's sister may have
a claim on your kindness too."

"If I thought that she--"

"You mean, that she loved him. You must take his word for that; she is
not likely to make a confidant of you. Besides, he tells you it's a
last meeting; you can scarcely say nay. Poor girl, he is the only one
remaining to her of all her house! On his departure you are not more a
stranger here than is she in the land of her fathers."

"I'll do it I I'll do it!" cried I, passionately. "Let him meet me where
he mentioned; I 'll be there."

"That's as it should be," said the abbe, grasping my hand, and pressing
it fervently. "But come, don't forget you must pass me through this same
cordon of yours."

With a timid and shrinking heart I walked beside the abbe, across the
open terrace, towards the large gate, which with its bronzed and gilded
tracery was already shining in the rich sunlight.

"A fine-looking fellow, that dragoon yonder; he 's deco' rated, I see."

"Yes; an old hussar of the Garde."

"What 's he called?"

"Pierre Dulong; a name well known in his troop."

"Halte-la!" cried the soldier, as we approached.

"Your officer," said I.

"The word?"

"Arcole."

"Pass, 'Arcole;' an