e uncurtained
window, saw me there, and carried the news into the village.

The next day Tardif bade me farewell, and Monsieur Laurentie drove him
to Granville on his way home to Sark.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH.

FAREWELL TO VILLE-EN-BOIS.

The unbroken monotony of Ville-en-bois closed over me again. The tolling
of the morning bell; the hum of matins; the frugal breakfast in the
sunlit _salon_; the long, hot day; vespers again; then an hour's chat by
twilight with the drowsy cure and his sister, whose words were so rare.
Before six such days had passed, I felt as if they were to last my
lifetime. Then the fretting of my uneasy woman's heart began. There was
no sign that I had any friends in England. What ought I to do? How must
I set about the intricate business of my affairs? Must I write to my
trustees in Melbourne, giving them the information of my husband's
death, and wait till I could receive from them instructions, and
credentials to prove my identity, without which it was useless, if it
were practicable, to return to London? Was there ever any one as
friendless as I was? Monsieur Laurentie could give me no counsel, except
to keep myself tranquil; but how difficult it was to keep tranquil amid
such profound repose! I had often found it easier to be calm amid many
provocations and numerous difficulties.

A week has glided by; a full week. The letter-carrier has brought me no
letter. I am seated at the window of the _salon_, gasping in these
simmering dog-days for a breath of fresh air; such a cool, balmy breeze
as blows over the summer sea to the cliffs of Sark. Monsieur Laurentie,
under the shelter of a huge red umbrella, is choosing the ripest cluster
of grapes for our supper this evening. All the street is as still as at
midnight. Suddenly there breaks upon us the harsh, metallic clang of
well-shod horse-hoofs upon the stony roadway--the cracking of a
postilion's whip--the clatter of an approaching carriage.

It proves to be a carriage with a pair of horses.

Pierre, who has been basking idly under the window, jumps to his feet,
shouting, "It is Monsieur the Bishop!" Minima claps her hands, and
cries, "The prince, Aunt Nelly, the prince!"

Monsieur Laurentie walks slowly down to the gate, his cotton umbrella
spread over him, like a giant fungus. It is certainly not the prince;
for an elderly, white-haired man, older than Monsieur Laurentie, but
with a more imposing and stately presence, steps o