e--she is married already. Shall I present you?"

"Ah, Monsieur de Vaudemont," said Madame d'Anville; "have you found out
a new bureau de mariage?"

The Vicomte pretended not to hear that question. But, turning to
Eugenie, took her aside, and said, with an air in which he endeavoured
to throw a great deal of sorrow, "You know, my dear cousin, that, to
oblige you, I consented to send for my son, though, as I always said,
it is very unpleasant for a man like me, in the prime of life, to hawk
about a great boy of nineteen or twenty. People soon say, 'Old Vaudemont
and younq Vaudemont.' However, a father's feelings are never appealed to
in vain." (Here the Vicomte put his handkerchief to his eyes, and after
a pause, continued,)--"I sent for him--I even went to your old bonne,
Madame Dufour, to make a bargain for her lodgings, and this day--guess
my grief--I received a letter sealed with black. My son is dead!--a
sudden fever--it is shocking!"

"Horrible! dead!--your own son, whom you hardly ever saw--never since he
was an Infant!"

"Yes, that softens the blow very much. And now you see I must marry. If
the boy had been good-looking, and like me, and so forth, why, as you
observed, he might have made a good match, and allowed me a certain sum,
or we could have all lived together."

"And your son is dead, and you come to a ball!"

"Je suis philosophe," said the Vicomte, shrugging his shoulders. "And,
as you say, I never saw him. It saves me seven hundred francs a-year.
Don't say a word to any one--I sha'n't give out that he is dead, poor
fellow! Pray be discreet: you see there are some ill-natured people who
might think it odd I do not shut myself up. I can wait till Paris is
quite empty. It would be a pity to lose any opportunity at present, for
now, you see, I must marry!" And the philosophe sauntered away.

CHAPTER XII.

GUIOMAR.
"Those devotions I am to pay
Are written in my heart, not in this book."

Enter RUTILIO.
"I am pursued--all the ports are stopped too,
Not any hope to escape--behind, before me,
On either side, I am beset."
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER, The Custom of the Country

The party were just gone--it was already the peep of day--the wheels of
the last carriage had died in the distance.

Madame de Merville had dismissed her woman, and was seated in her own
room, leaning her head musingly on her hand.

Beside her was the table that held her MSS