ly love
this Florimond, that her loyalty to him was no more than her loyalty to
her father's wishes. Nevertheless, he thought, what manner of hurt must
not her pride receive when she learned that Florimond had brought him
home a wife? Garnache was full of pity for her and for the loneliness
that must be hers hereafter, mistress of a vast estate in Dauphiny,
alone and friendless. And he was a little sorry for himself and the
loneliness which, he felt, would be his hereafter; but that was by the
way.

At last it was she herself who broke the silence.

"Monsieur," she asked him, and her voice was strained and husky, "were
you in time to save Florimond?"

"Yes, mademoiselle," he answered readily, glad that by that question she
should have introduced the subject. "I was in time."

"And Marius?" she inquired. "From what I heard you say, I take it that
he has suffered no harm."

"He has suffered none. I have spared him that he might participate in
the joy of his mother at her union with Monsieur de Tressan."

"I am glad it was so, monsieur. Tell me of it." Her voice sounded formal
and constrained.

But either he did not hear or did not heed the question.

"Mademoiselle," he said slowly. "Florimond is coming--"

"Florimond?" she broke in, and her voice went shrill, as if with a
sudden fear, her cheeks turned white as chalk. The thing that for months
she had hoped and prayed for was come at last, and it struck her almost
dead with terror.

He remarked the change, and set it down to a natural excitement. He
paused a moment. Then:

"He is still at La Rochette. But he does no more than wait until he
shall have learned that his stepmother has departed from Condillac."

"But--why--why--? Was he then in no haste to come to me?" she inquired,
her voice faltering.

"He is--" He stopped and tugged at his mustachios, his eyes regarding
her sombrely. He was close beside her now, where he had halted, and he
set his hand gently upon her shoulder, looked down into that winsome
little oval face she raised to his.

"Mademoiselle," he inquired, "would it afflict you very sorely if you
were not destined, after all, to wed the Lord of Condillac?"

"Afflict me?" she echoed. The very question set her gasping with hope.
"No--no, monsieur; it would not afflict me."

"That is true? That is really, really true?" he cried, and his tone
seemed less despondent.

"Don't you know how true it is?" she said, in such accents and with such