the
Marquis was getting himself in hand. "If you come near Bellecour again,
if you are so much as found within the grounds of the park, I'll have
you beaten to death by my grooms for your presumption. Keep you the
memory of that promise in mind, Sir Secretary, and let it warn you to
avoid Bellecour, as you would a plague-house. Come, Suzanne," he said,
turning abruptly to his daughter, "Enough of this delightful morning
have we already wasted on this canaille."

With that he offered her his wrist, and so, without so much as another
glance at La Boulaye, she took her departure.

The secretary remained where they had left him, pale of face--saving the
fortuitous crimson mark which the whip had cut--and very sick at heart.
The heat of the moment being spent, he had leisure to contemplate his
plight. A scorned lover, a beaten man, a dismissed secretary! He looked
sorrowfully upon his volume of "The Discourses," and for the first time
a doubt crossed his mind touching the wisdom of old Jean Jacques. Was
there would there ever be any remedy for such a condition of things as
now prevailed?

Already the trees had hidden the Marquis and his daughter from La
Boulaye's sight. The young revolutionist felt weary and lonely--dear
God, how lonely! neither kith nor kin had he, and of late all the
interest of his life--saving always that absorbed by Jean Jacques--had
lain in watching Suzanne de Bellecour, and in loving her silently and
distantly. Now that little crumb of comfort was to be his no more, he
was to go away from Bellecour, away from the sight of her for all time.
And he loved her, loved her, loved her!

He tossed his arms to Heaven with a great sigh that was a sob almost,
then he passed his hands over his face, and as they came in contact
with the swollen ridge that scored it, love faded from his mind, and
vindictiveness came to fill its room.

"But for this," he cried aloud. "I shall take payment--aye, as there is
a God!"

Then turning, and with "The Discourses" held tightly to his side, he
moved slowly away, following the course of the gleaming waters.

CHAPTER II. LORDS OF LIFE AND DEATH

One friend did La Boulaye count in the village of Bellecour. This
was old Duhamel, the schoolmaster, an eccentric pedant and a
fellow-worshipper of the immortal Jean Jacques. It was to him that La
Boulaye now repaired intent upon seeking counsel touching a future that
wore that morning a singularly gloomy outlook.

He