nn where he had breakfasted with his father
on his former visit, and, after an unsatisfactory meal, returned to
Champdoce, as wretched as he had been joyful and hopeful at his early
start in the morning. But later on he went to Daumon, who put him
in communication with a friend who, for a commission, took the
unsophisticated lad about, hired some furnished rooms, and finally
introduced him to the best ladies in the town, while Norbert ordered
clothes to the tune of five hundred francs. He now thought himself on
the high road to the full gratification of his desires; but, alas! the
reality, compared with what his imagination had pictured, appeared rank
and chilling. His timidity and shyness arrested all his progress; he
required an intimate friend, and where could he hit upon one?

One evening he entered the Cafe Castille. He found a large number of
students collected there, and was a little disgusted at their turbulent
gayety, and, hastily withdrawing, he spent the rest of the weary
evening in his own rooms with Bruno, who, for his part, would have much
preferred the open country. He had really only enjoyed the four evenings
on which he had visited the Martre; but these limited hours of happiness
did not make up for the web of falsehood in which he had enmeshed
himself, or the daily dread of detection in which he lived.

The Duke had noticed his son's absence, but his suspicions were very
wide of the truth. One morning he laughed at Norbert on the continued
non-success of his shooting.

"Do your best to-day, my boy," said he, "and try and bring home some
game, for we shall have a guest to dinner."

"To dinner, here?"

"Yes," answered the Duke suppressing a smile. "Yes, actually here; M.
Puymandour is coming, and the dining-room must be opened and put into
proper order."

"I will try and kill some game," answered Norbert to himself as he
started on his errand.

This, however, was more easily resolved on than executed. At last he
caught sight of an impudent rabbit near a hedge; he raised his gun and
fired. A shriek of anguish followed the report, and Bruno dashed into
the hedge, barking furiously.

CHAPTER V.

A BAD START.

Diana de Laurebourg was a strange compound; under an appearance of the
most artless simplicity she concealed an iron will, and had hidden from
every one of her family, and even from her most intimate friends, her
firm resolve to become the Duchess of Champdoce. All her rambles in the