and her eyes sparkled with golden flashes;
then the day smoldered and died, leaving the world enveloped in a
silvery pallor. To the thought which wanders visual beauty is without
significance, and madame's thought was traversing paths which were many
miles beyond the sea.

"Madame, are you not truly a poet?"

The vicomte stood at her side, his hat under his arm. "I daresay," he
went on, "that many a night while you were crossing the sea you stood
by the railing and watched the pathway of the moon. How like destiny
it was! You could not pass that ribbon of moonshine nor could it pass
you, but ever and ever it walked and abided with you. Well, so it is
with destiny."

"And when the clouds come, Monsieur le Vicomte, and shut out the moon,
there is, then, a cessation to destiny?"

"You are not only a poet, Madame," he observed, his fingers straying
over his mustache. "You have eclipsed my metaphor nicely, I will
admit."

"And this preamble leads . . . ?"

"I have something of vital importance to tell you; but it can not be
told here. Will you do me the honor and confidence, Madame, to follow
me to the chateau?"

"How vital is this information?" the chill in her voice becoming
obvious and distinct.

"I was speaking of destiny, Madame; what I have to say pertinently
concerns yours."

Madame trembled and her brow became moist. "Where do you wish me to go
with you, Monsieur?"

"Only into a deserted council chamber, where, if doubt or fear disturbs
you, you have but to cry to bring the whole regiment tumbling about my
ears."

"Proceed, Monsieur; I am not afraid."

"I go before only to show you the way, Madame."

He turned, and madame, casting a regretful glance at the planets which
were beginning to blaze in the firmament, followed him. She was at
once disturbed and curious. This man, brilliant and daring though she
knew him to be, always stirred a vague distrust. He had never done
aught to give rise to this inward antagonism; yet a shadowy instinct, a
half-slumbering sense, warned her against him. D'Herouville she hated
cordially, for he had pursued her openly; but this man walking before
her, she did not hate him, she feared him. There had been nights at
the hotel in Paris when she had felt the fiery current of his glance,
but he had never spoken; many a time she had read the secret in his
eyes, but his lips had remained mute. She understood this tact, this
diplomacy which, though it chafed he