de, that I might practise it at times when there is no fiddling
needed?" I spoke cheerfully, but let it be seen that I was not in jest.
A little pale, she looked from one of us to the other, not
understanding.

"All nonsense, Valerie!" cried Yvon, forcing a laugh. "Jacques learned
shoemaking, as he would learn anything, for the sake of knowledge. He
may even have practised it here and there, among his neighbours; why
not? I have often wished I could set a stitch, in time of need, as he
has done to-day. But to remain at this trade,--it is stuff that he
talks; he does not know his own nature, his own descent, when he permits
himself to think of such a thing. Fie, M. D'Arthenay!"

"No more of that!" I said. "The play is over, _mon cher_! M. D'Arthenay
is a figure of your kind, romantic heart, Yvon. Plain Jacques De
Arthenay, farmer's son, fiddler, and cobbler, stands from this moment on
his own feet, not those of his grandfather four times back."

I did not look at my young lady, not daring to see the trouble that I
knew was in her sweet face; but I looked full at Yvon, and was glad
rather than sorry at his black look. I could have quarrelled with him or
any man who had brought me to this pass. But just then, before there
could be any more speech, came the sour-faced maid with an urgent
message from Mme. de Lalange, that both the young lady and the marquis
should attend her in her own room without delay.

Left alone, I found myself considering the roses on the terrace, and
wondering could I take away a slip of one, and keep it alive till I
reached home. In the back of my head I knew what was going on up-stairs
in the grim lady's room; but I had no mind to lose hold on myself, and
presently I went for my fiddle, which was kept in the parlour hard by,
and practised scales, a thing I always did when out of Yvon's company,
being what he could not abear. To practise scales is a fine thing,
Melody, to steady the mind and give it balance; you never knew, my
child, why I made you sing your scales so often, that night when your
aunt Rejoice was like to die, and all the house in such distress. Your
aunt Vesta thought me mad, but I was never in better wits.

So I was quiet, when after a long time Yvon came down to me. When I saw
that he knew all, I laid my violin away, agitation being bad for the
strings,--or so I have always thought. He was in a flame of anger, and
fairly stammered in his speech. What had his aunt said to me, he