he said, "to this room there is but this one door. I
remain without with these soldiers. You can see by a glance through
the windows that they also are closely guarded. Escape is impossible.
In half an hour I will knock upon the door, open it, and escort you
back to your place of confinement. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly."

"Enter."

Somewhat bewildered by the mysteriousness of the whole proceeding, and
yet with a heart which in spite of himself did beat a little faster,
Marteau entered the room, St. Laurent closing the heavy door behind him.

CHAPTER XXV

NOT EVEN LOVE CAN FIND A WAY

Standing in the middle of the room, her closed hand resting upon a
table upon which she leaned as if for support, was Laure d'Aumenier.
The old Marquis had not noticed it, nor did the young man; that is, the
eye of neither took in the details, but both had been conscious of the
general effect, for the young Countess had dressed herself in her most
becoming gown, one that had been newly made for her in Paris before the
journey to the south of France and that she had never worn before.

She had spent a miserable night and day. When she had talked with her
uncle a short time before, the effects of her sleeplessness and anguish
had been plainly apparent. But there, within that room, her color
coming to her face, her eyes shining with excitement and emotion, she
looked as fresh and as beautiful as the springtime without.

It was her right hand that rested on the table, and as Marteau
approached her left instinctively sought her heart. In his emotion he
looked at her with steady, concentrated glance, so keen, so piercing,
as if he sought to penetrate to the very depths of her heart, that she
could scarcely sustain his gaze. He, too, had forgot cares and
anxieties, anticipation, hopes, dreams; in his excitement and surprise
everything had gone from him but her presence. Here was the woman he
loved, looking at him in such a way, with such an air and such a
bearing, her hand upon her heart--was that heart beating for him? Was
she trying to still it, to control it, because----

His approach was slow, almost terribly deliberate, like the movement of
the old Guard under Dorsenne--_Le Beau Dorsenne_!--against the heights
of Pratzen on the glorious yet dreadful day of Austerlitz. His advance
was irresistible, but unhurried, as if there must be a tremendous clash
of arms in a moment to which haste could lend nothing, from