before
the--present king ascended the throne are valid. The estates are
legally mine. You reject them. I----" he hesitated, he stepped over
to the young woman--"I return them to you, mademoiselle. Her dowry,
monsieur," he added, facing the Englishman, as he laid the packet down
on the table by the side of the Countess Laure.

"Well, that's handsome of you," said the latter heartily.

"I cannot take them," ejaculated the young woman, just a touch of
contempt for her obtuse English lover in her voice. "I---- They are
legally his. We shall have no need----"

"Nonsense," burst out the young English officer. "They are rightfully
yours. They were taken from you by an usurper who----"

"Monsieur!" cried Marteau sharply.

"Well, sir?"

"He who cannot be named by order of the king is not to be slandered by
order of----"

"Whose order?"

"Mine," said Marteau.

"Indeed," answered the Englishman, his face flushing as he laid his
hand on his sword--he was wearing his uniform.

"Steady, steady," cried the old Baronet, interposing between the two.
"The lad's right. If we can't name Bonaparte, it is only fair that we
shouldn't abuse him. And the girl's right, too. You have no need of
any such dowry. Thank God I have got acres and pounds of my own for
the two of you and all that may come after."

"It strikes me, gentlemen," said the Marquis coolly, "that the disposal
of the affair is mine. Marteau is right and I was wrong. Perhaps he
has some claim to the estate. But, however that may be, he does well
to surrender it to its ancient overlord. I accept it as my due. I
shall see that he does not suffer for his generosity."

"And does monsieur think that he could compensate me if he should give
me the whole of France for the loss of----"

"Good God!" said the keen witted, keen eyed old Marquis, seeing
Marteau's glance toward the young woman. "Are you still presuming
to----"

"As man looks toward the sun that gives him life," said the young
Frenchman, "so I look toward mademoiselle. But have no fear,
monsieur," he went on to the English dragoon, "you have won her heart.
I envy you but----"

"Marteau!" protested the Countess, the anguish in her soul speaking in
her voice again.

How different the appearance of this slender, pale, delicate young
Frenchman from the coarser-grained English soldier to whom she had
plighted her troth, but to whom she had not given her heart. There was
no doubt in her mi