ut
the kindest recollection of the light-hearted woman who for a time had
brightened his solitude. He consequently replied to a little note sent
by Charlotte that he was ready to receive her.

D'Argenton and she took a carriage from the hotel, and as they
approached the chateau, Charlotte began to grow uneasy. "It cannot be,"
she said to herself, "that he intends to go in with me!" She sat in the
corner of the carriage, looking out at the fields where she had so often
wandered with the boy, who was now wearing a workman's blouse.

D'Argenton watched her from the corner of his eyes, gnawing his
moustache with fury. She was very pretty that morning, a little pale
from emotion and from a night of travel. D'Argenton was uneasy
and restless; he began to regret having accompanied her, and felt
embarrassed by the part he was playing.

When he saw the chateau, with its grounds and fountains, its air of
wealth, he reproached himself for his own imprudence. "She will never
return to Aulnettes," he thought. At the end of the avenue he stopped
the carriage. "I will wait here," he said, abruptly; and added, with a
sad smile, "Do not be long."

Ten minutes later he saw Charlotte on the terrace with a tall and
elegant-looking man. Then began for him a terrible anguish. What were
they saying? Should he ever see her again? And it was that detestable
boy that had given him all this disturbance. The poet sat on the fallen
trunk of a tree, watching feverishly the distant door. Before him was
outspread a charming landscape--wooded hills, sloping vineyards, and
meadows overhung with willows; on one side a ruin of the time of Louis
IX., and on the other, one of those chateaux common enough on the shores
of the Loire. Just below him a sort of canal was in process of building.
He watched the workmen in a mechanical sort of way; they were clothed
in uniform, and seemed an organized body. He rose and sauntered toward
them. The laborers were only children, and their reddened eyes and pale
faces told the story of their confinement to the poorer quarters of the
town.

"Who are these children?" questioned the poet.

"They belong to the penitentiary," was the answer from the official who
superintended them.

D'Argenton asked question after question, saying that he was intimately
connected with a family whose only son had just plunged them into deep
affliction.

"Send him to us," was the curt reply, "as soon as he leaves the prison."

"But