ster, then you must be the veriest
idiot alive."

A single lens may not, perhaps, suffice to make an object visible, but
place another in juxtaposition with it and suddenly all becomes clear
and distinct. Isidore recalled the piteous words uttered by Marguerite
as she dropped the letter, and the truth flashed across his mind at
once.

Madame de Valricour had thrown herself into a chair as she concluded
her tirade, for the collected way in which her nephew had at first
listened to her, and his high and mighty air, seemed to belie any
charge of duplicity at all events. But when she noticed the alarmed
expression of his face, and the no less unmistakable change in his
manner, she was on her feet again in a moment and was about to renew
the attack, but he interrupted her.

"Pardon me, my aunt," said he, "it is worse than useless for us two to
discuss this business. I am afraid I have made a mistake indeed, and
one that is like enough to cause no little bitterness and trouble. Yet
I do not regret it for one moment," he added, as he thought of the few
loving words with which Marguerite had confessed her long-cherished
affection for him. "Whatever you may think, my aunt, I have acted
honestly and in good faith, and it will rest with my father to decide
how all this is to end. I shall appeal to him at once. Nay, I beseech
you, my good aunt," he continued, seeing the baroness about to break
forth again, "let us not make things worse by useless altercation.
With your permission I will relieve you of my presence, and will desire
Jasmin to order our horses that I may return at once to Beaujardin."

Without giving Madame de Valricour time for any further comment,
Isidore then bowed to her and withdrew.

[Illustration: Tailpiece to Chapter II]

[Illustration: Headpiece to Chapter III]

CHAPTER III.

Isidore had scarcely quitted the terrace before he was accosted by
Clotilde's maid, who begged him to come to her young mistress without
delay, and he soon reached his fair cousin's boudoir. He found her
trying to cheer up poor Marguerite, but not very successfully, it must
be owned, for Clotilde's spirits were always of the highest, and her
thoughtless raillery increased rather than allayed her friend's
distress.

"Mercy on us!" she exclaimed as Isidore made his appearance. "If any
one ever deserved the name of 'the knight of the rueful countenance' it
is certainly my doughty cousin. Well, if men put o