ht to take.
Francine heard Madame du Gua give a sigh of relief as she felt herself
in safety beyond reach of the Blues; an exclamation escaped her when the
gates were closed, and she saw the carriage and its occupants within the
walls of this natural fortress.

The Marquis de Montauran turned hastily to Mademoiselle de Verneuil,
divining the thoughts that crowded in her mind.

"This chateau," he said, rather sadly, "was ruined by the war, just as
my plans for our happiness have been ruined by you."

"How ruined?" she asked in surprise.

"Are you indeed 'beautiful, brilliant, and of noble birth'?" he asked
ironically, repeating the words she had herself used in their former
conversation.

"Who has told you to the contrary?"

"Friends, in whom I put faith; who care for my safety and are on the
watch against treachery."

"Treachery!" she exclaimed, in a sarcastic tone. "Have you forgotten
Hulot and Alencon already? You have no memory,--a dangerous defect
in the leader of a party. But if friends," she added, with increased
sarcasm, "are so all-powerful in your heart, keep your friends. Nothing
is comparable to the joys of friendship. Adieu; neither I nor the
soldiers of the Republic will stop here."

She turned towards the gateway with a look of wounded pride and scorn,
and her motions as she did so displayed a dignity and also a despair
which changed in an instant the thoughts of the young man; he felt that
the cost of relinquishing his desires was too great, and he gave himself
up deliberately to imprudence and credulity. He loved; and the lovers
had no desire now to quarrel with each other.

"Say but one word and I will believe you," he said, in a supplicating
voice.

"One word?" she answered, closing her lips tightly, "not a single word;
not even a gesture."

"At least, be angry with me," he entreated, trying to take the hand she
withheld from him,--"that is, if you dare to be angry with the leader of
the rebels, who is now as sad and distrustful as he was lately happy and
confiding."

Marie gave him a look that was far from angry, and he added: "You have
my secret, but I have not yours."

The alabaster brow appeared to darken at these words; she cast a look
of annoyance on the young chieftain, and answered, hastily: "Tell you my
secret? Never!"

In love every word, every glance has the eloquence of the moment; but on
this occasion Mademoiselle de Verneuil's exclamation revealed nothing,
and, clever