our own misfortunes, but those which will fall
on others.

"He who loves you, and whose wife you will be."

Curiously enough, at the very moment that the gentle victim of this
plot was drooping like a cut flower, Mesdemoiselles Massin, Dionis, and
Cremiere were envying her lot.

"She is a lucky girl," they were saying; "people talk of her, and court
her, and quarrel about her. The serenade was charming; there was a
cornet-a-piston."

"What's a piston?"

"A new musical instrument, as big as this, see!" replied Angelique
Cremiere to Pamela Massin.

Early that morning Savinien had gone to Fontainebleau to endeavor to
find out who had engaged the musicians of the regiment then in garrison.
But as there were two men to each instrument it was impossible to find
out which of them had gone to Nemours. The colonel forbade them to play
for any private person in future without his permission. Savinien had
an interview with the procureur du roi, Ursula's legal guardian, and
explained to him the injury these scenes would do to a young girl
naturally so delicate and sensitive, begging him to take some action to
discover the author of such wrong.

Three nights later three violins, a flute, a guitar, and a hautboy began
another serenade. This time the musicians fled towards Montargis, where
there happened then to be a company of comic actors. A loud and ringing
voice called out as they left: "To the daughter of the regimental
bandsman Mirouet." By this means all Nemours came to know the profession
of Ursula's father, a secret the old doctor had sedulously kept.

Savinien did not go to Montargis. He received in the course of the day
an anonymous letter containing a prophecy:--

"You will never marry Ursula. If you wish her to live, give her up
at once to a man who loves her more than you love her. He has made
himself a musician and an artist to please her, and he would
rather see her dead than let her be your wife."

The doctor came to Ursula three times in the course of that day, for
she was really in danger of death from the horror of this mysterious
persecution. Feeling that some infernal hand had plunged her into the
mire, the poor girl lay like a martyr; she said nothing, but lifted her
eyes to heaven, and wept no more; she seemed awaiting other blows, and
prayed fervently.

"I am glad I cannot go down into the salon," she said to Monsieur
Bongrand and the abbe, who left her as little as possible; "_He_ woul