I will come. I did not know that you had gone so far--"

"Sh! You know now. Let that suffice. It is not good to talk of these
things just yet."

"But in the meantime," La Boulaye persisted, "what of this?" And again
he pointed to his cheek.

"Why, let it heal, boy."

"I promised the Marquis that I would demand satisfaction of his son, and
I am tempted to do so and risk the consequences."

"I am afraid the consequences will be the only satisfaction that you
will get. In fact, they will be anticipations rather than consequences,
for they'll never let you near the boy."

"I know not that," he answered. "The lad is more generous than his sire,
and if I were to send him word that I have been affronted, he might
consent to meet me. For the rest, I could kill him blindfolded," he
added, with a shrug.

"Bloodthirsty animal!" rejoined Duhamel. "Unnatural tutor! Do you forget
that you were the boy's preceptor?"

With that Duhamel carried the argument into new fields, and showed La
Boulaye that to avenge upon the young Vicomte the insults received
at the hands of the old Marquis was hardly a worthy method of taking
vengeance. At last he won him to his way, and it was settled that on the
morrow La Boulaye should journey with him to Amiens.

"But, Caron, we are forgetting our friend Charlot and his bride," he
broke off suddenly. "Come, boy; the ceremony will be at an end by this."

He took La Boulaye by the arm, and led him out and down the street to
the open space opposite St. Ildefonse. The wedding-party was streaming
out through the door of the little church into the warm sunshine of that
April morning. In the churchyard they formed into a procession of happy
be-ribboned and nosegayed men and women--the young preceding, the old
following, the bridal couple. Two by two they came, and the air rang
with their laughter and joyous chatter. Then another sound arose, and if
the secretary and the pedagogue could have guessed of what that beating
of hoofs was to be the prelude, they had scarce smiled so easily as they
watched the approaching cortege.

From a side street there now emerged a gaily apparelled cavalcade. At
its head rode the Marquis de Bellecour, the Vicomte, and a half-dozen
other gentlemen, followed by, perhaps, a dozen lacqueys. It was a
hunting party that was making its way across the village to the open
country beyond. The bridal procession crossing their path caused them to
draw rein, and to wait until it s