pidly and steadily. I did
not once see the young girl, Mademoiselle Capello, who had brought
about all this fine coil, but she was not out of my mind for a moment.
I may be, as I am, the ugliest man on earth, without riches and not
wanting them, humbly born and not disguising it, but yet I can have my
dreams as well as any man. I often passed the great Hotel Kirkpatrick
in those days, and longed to know how Mademoiselle Capello fared, and
whether her escapade had come to Madame Riano's ears or not. Several
times I caught sight of old Peter, who seemed to be majordomo of the
establishment. The man's face always arrested my attention. He was an
ordinary looking elderly man, still retaining something of his
soldier's life about him, but the look in his eyes always went to the
heart like a poniard. Afterward I heard why this was so. I saw Madame
Riano often enough driving in or out of her courtyard in her great
purple and gold coach, with her purple and canary postilions and four
cream-colored horses. When she went to court she had six horses.

The days on which I saw Mademoiselle Capello were well marked in my
memory. I never forgot the hour, nor the place, nor whether the sun
shone, nor if she looked well or ill. Once on a soft and lovely
evening I saw her sitting opposite Madame Riano in the coach, as it
rolled over the Pont Neuf. The young lady leaned forward and smiled
and bowed to me. Another time I saw her walking in the garden of the
Hotel Kirkpatrick. It was morning then, a May morning, and she was
bare-headed, the sun kissing freely her dark rich hair, with the
little rings around her milk-white brow and throat. Another day,
toward sunset, when a great thunder storm was brewing, I passed the
back part of the garden where the theater had been set up, and I saw
her walking there alone. As I watched Mademoiselle Capello's pensive
face--for that day she seemed to be in a reflective mood--the rain
suddenly descended in sheets. She ran laughing toward the hotel. Her
face, her flying figure, her unconscious grace, were all childlike
that day, and after all she was only fourteen; but maids were married
often at fourteen.

On the twelfth day after I had made a hole in Gaston Cheverny's
carcass I was admitted to see him; we then thought ourselves on the
verge of our departure for Courland. It was in the evening, and I was
ushered into Gaston Cheverny's saloon, where he sat in a great chair.
He was pale and thin and showed