'Mais comment?'

Attends; hear me out. My plan is magnificent. I shall take care that no amusement is provided for this foreigner. He will ennuye himself; he will have the spleens; he will be unbearable. Then he will feel the vacuum. He will discover how essential Clothilde is becoming to his happiness. In the evening she will come down for a few moments. Her health will be interesting. We must leave them a little alone, and the rest-'

At this moment the door opened, and the object of their solicitude walked in. The little man leapt up and received him with smiles and grimaces.

We were just speaking of you. We thought you were lost, and were debating whether to send out Simon to look for you in the woods.'

The little man slept happily that night, lulled by the pleasant prospects of the next campaign. What was his horror, what the misery of the whole family, when, next morning, Paul announced his intention of leaving them for a few days!

To all the expostulations of the little man, who could scarcely conceal his fury, Paul replied that it was only for a couple of days, he would be sure to return, &c.; and not a word more could they get from him. Of course Clothilde's sore throat was cured with miraculous promptitude, and she appeared radiant in a new dress, to make a last impression on her faithless swain. But all in vain. De Beaufort never offered to drive him over, and every obstacle was put in his way; but Paul quietly hired the innkeeper's horse at Baud, and directed his luggage to be brought over in a cart.

If Montague had not been in love, he would have seen that this sudden departure was not very courteous; but all is fair in love and war.

'I told you so,' said the Chanoinesse,

As Paul rode up to the château, with Smug at his heels, a strange sight met his eyes. The whole of the archway was blocked up by a large wooden shrine, which would have been splendid, if it had not been tawdry, covered with crimson velvet drapery, relieved by white satin. It was only half-finished, and while Pierre, Etienne, and two or three maids were bustling about it, Madeleine herself was standing on a chair in front of it, busily engaged in grouping natural flowers round the wooden pillars which supported it.

As she heard the horse's hoofs upon the gravel, she turned half round, and Paul thought he had never seen her look more beautiful. She was in splendid disorder, like Venus after a romp. Her rich hair had half fallen from its prison knot behind, and covered one shoulder. Stray rose leaves had showered from over-blown flowers upon her head, in training them on the reposoir, and the white pollen from others, was sprinkled over her bloom

ing face. She had tied a large silk handkerchief round her neck in a loose knot, and as she turned to Montague, with her lips parted in a merry laugh, still holding the end of a festoon of ivy in one hand, and pushing back the skirt of her muslin dress with the other, she looked the fancy of some richly dreaming artist.

She laughed merrily as she saw the Englishman. This laugh had grown upon her of late. Madeleine, who had always been a pensive, melancholy beauty, had learned the mirth of life since she had known Paul Montague, you will say, but rather since Ludowsky had been withdrawn from the power of annoying her. She had grown happy in these latter days, and that with a happiness which she had never known in childhood.

'You are come in time to be useful, monsieur,' she said, 'and you find me in a terrible state of confusion. Run and fetch that red ribbon, and then I will talk to you.'

Paul did his missive with the re

ward in view, but found her busier than ever.

'Now, hold the end of this chain of ivy, while I tie it up. There. How did you get on last night? Did you follow my injunctions? No quarrel, eh ?'

'We are the best friends in the world.'

The best! That is saying too much. You must not be too friendly with the Vicomte. I have my doubts of him. Now give me the scissors. There, that will do. Does it not look well? This is all my work, with Pierre and Etienne to assist me. Is it not excellent?'

And for what is it destined?' To receive the sacred Host,' she said, gravely. We are fortunate in being allowed to build a shrine for it.' 'Superstition,' muttered Paul, somewhat savagely.

'If you will,' replied Madeleine, catching his one word more quickly than he expected. But better-allow it better than atheism.'

Yes; as darkness is better than a light which blinds.'

Give me that garland, and a truce to your philosophy.' Yet she looked at him with admiration. Paul was not given to quoting, and the sentence came from his own head.

An hour was passed in finishing the reposoir, and then, while Madeleine went to set herself to rights,' Paul strolled into the drawing-room, and received the welcome of the Baron and Baroness.

At last, the distant tinkling of a little bell announced the approach of the procession. The whole family, servants and all, crowded down to the front of the reposoir, and arranged themselves on either side.

Presently, a deep low chant came murmuring up the avenue, and soon, in the distance, were seen three little cherubim, in white surplices, girt with red bands, and with little scarlet skull-caps on their heads; they came, flinging up the silver censers one by

one.

A stout peasant, clothed for the occasion in a magnificent chasuble of white satin and gold embroidery, all rather the worse for wear, bore a tall crucifix next in the train. A splendid canopy followed, carried by four peasants, and beneath it walked the ex

cellent curé, in his finest robes, holding in both hands the shrine which contained the consecrated Host.

Six dirty singing men, in cloth of gold, and a number of small choristers in scarlet and white, followed, chanting in low solemn tones a dirge-like litany. Another cross, and a series of ecclesiastical banners, on some of which was the Virgin, with pierced heart, on others, the lamb and flag, completed the procession; and the train that followed consisted of every respectable and pious individual from miles around, in their best attire.

It was solemn to look upon, solemn to hear. All wore the garb of humility, all bared and bowed their heads, all walked with measured tread, and joined in low tones the litany of humiliation. Paul had no wish to ask more. He had no wish to know how many of the souls there present really lifted up their thoughts to God, and deemed that they were doing Him glory. He might have thought that even the priest himself, under the splendid canopy, thought more of the effect of his show, than of the littleness of man's grandeur, and the true majesty of his Maker's. But he was willing to be deceived, and to lift up his own heart without cavilling, and feel that, even if this were but a show, it was an act of acknowledgment of the greatness of God--an act of faith, in fact. So he bared his head in reverence, not to the Host, but to the Being whom he and they now worshipped.

But as the procession drew nearer, and the priest, leaving the canopy, approached the reposoir, he saw one by one fall upon their knees. Madeleine sank into an attitude of deep respect. The old Baron, with bare head, with difficulty brought one knee to the ground, and still more awkwardly succeeded in bending the other. Servants and all were kneeling, and Paul alone remained standing. He debated for a moment whether to fall down or not. He was a member of the true church, and deemed their worship extravagant and erroneous. To kneel would have been to acknowledge the Real Presence in the Host. To stand, was to deny it. But would his standing offend them? Why? Republican as he was, he believed that every man

has a right to his own opinion, and that the expression of it in any form, should be no offence to others who differed from it. So he remained upright amid those crouching figures, boldly but unobtrusively avowing his creed. He was right, whatever your true cosmopolite may say.

A little cherub tinkled a little bell. The crouching figures bowed till they kissed the earth, for the priest, standing before the shrine, raised the pyx in both hands, once, twice, thrice, above his head. He darted an angry glance at Montague, who, though he had bared his head, remained standing. Again the little cherub tinkled the little bell, and all rose as if relieved. Then the chant began again slowly, solemnly, and dirge-like; again the priest took his place beneath the canopy, and all moved off in order as they had come. But the movement was slow, and the crowd of followers pressed forward to greet and be greeted by the Baron. Among the foremost came a white-headed old man, erect and firm, and by his side a handsome fellow, in the rough dress of a gamekeeper.

Madeleine had come to Montague's

side.

'Why did you not kneel, M. Montague?" she said softly, but with a slight reproach.

I do not worship the pyx,' he answered.

'Nor I. But we all worship the one God whose flesh and blood is carried therein.'

There was no time for a discussion, however, for both by one accord turned their eyes upon the old man, and his son, who now advanced. Madeleine turned pale as death. Paul did not notice it. He was riveted by this young man's face.

How like he exclaimed, how like the Vicomte Delafosse, and still more like my bourgeois from Nantes.' Madeleine did not answer, but cast down her eyes gravely, as the old man advanced leading his son by the hand towards the Baron.

Well, Legrand,' said the latter stiffly, looking doubtfully at the young

man.

'Monsieur le Baron,' began old Legrand, forgive me; you know my son has been long lost to me. He has been

a wanderer over the world, and late last night he returned footsore and repentant to my cottage. I could not refuse him entrance. I bring him now to you a penitent. You have forgiven him, Monsieur le Baron. Surely you will receive him kindly?' And tears stood in the old man's eyes as he grew eloquent in his deep feeling.

Give me thy hand, Antoine,' said the Baron roughly. I am glad to see thee back, friend, and hope thou art come with a humbler heart than wast wont to have.'

So the Baron de Ronville tutoyed the gamekeeper's son, who shook the offered hand; and no one saw the wicked smile that played on his face as he bent downwards. The Baroness drew her daughter with her, and went to greet the prodigal, like a Christian, as she was.

You will stay with us now, Antoine,' she said kindly, we have often stood in need of your services.'

So we have,' said the Baron, still sternly; and we have not forgotten that thou once saved our daughter's life. Give him your hand, child; you owe him much."

Antoine trembled as he touched the cold fingers Madeleine offered him, and then moved on after his father to join the procession. The Baron looked annoyed, but tried to shake it off.

Ma foi, madame!' said he, turning to his wife, don't you see a likeness in that boy to one of our recent acquaintance?'

No, to whom?'

Why, the Vicomte Delafosse, to be sure." Madeleine shivered.

Come, Monsieur Montécu,' the old gentleman continued; 'by Jupiter, yours is a good name in France-one of our oldest and best families-and in England too, I dare say. Come sir, let me show you round my farm.'

As he went, Paul turned to look at Madeleine. She was standing on the same spot, in the same position, her face paler than ever, and her eyes fixed steadily upon the ground. A few minutes later she was in her own chamber praying fervently.

Paul found a capital companion in the Baron, and much to interest him in the French farm, but he was longing all the time to be by Madeleine's

side, and delicately question her. Much to his disgust, the good old gentleman kept him engaged till dinner-time. The curé of the village had been invited, according to custom, to dine at the Baron's table. There was a worthy farmer or two of the better sort besides, and so when Paul found himself next to Madeleine, he hoped to monopolize her. But he found he had a rival in her own sad thoughts.

The curé was not only an illiterate, but a vulgar man. Almost all village priests in France are of the lower orders, and without education, but not many presume upon their position to be obnoxious in society. This man, however, made up for his usual abstinence by drinking of every wine that was handed round, and occasionally asked for more. He talked loud, laid down the law, picked his teeth with his fork, and was generally disgusting. Still, as he was the representative of the Church, every one listened to him with respect, and the farmers, little better themselves, as far as manners went, but good hearty Bretons within, stood almost in awe of him. Even the Baron himself, who could not bear this man, felt it due to the Church to be extremely deferential towards him. At last the wine mounted to his head, and he began to talk without restraint.

Don't you think our procession went off very well, Monsieur le Baron?' he asked, as if it had been a theatrical representation; but as I have often heard English clergymen talk in the same tone of their church-services, I suppose I have no right to be shocked at this.

Paul was in no humour for a discussion, and he saw that the arguments he could bring forward, strong as they might be to a large mind, could have no weight with the narrow brows that knew no authority but the tradition of the Church, and he therefore only bowed.

The curé thought he had silenced, if not convinced an adversary, and began again more elated than ever.

I was pleased to see that the reverence of the parish has not decreased the procession was well attended.' The farmers chorused an assent.

I only saw one instance of irreverence, and that I must say was a gross one,' looking impertinently at Paul all the time. There was an individual present who did not kneel even when the Holy Body of Christ was raised before the people.'

'Shocking, shocking,' said the farmers.

Paul was inclined to reply, for these remarks were unmistakably hurled at him, and he felt that he might lose in the sight of the Baron and Baroness, if he allowed them to remain unanswered.

'I think,' he began, but at that moment a hand pressed his under the table, and Madeleine whispered in English, Do not answer.'

That individual must have been either an infidel or a heretic,' continued the priest, growing more and more excited with wine and fanaticism.

If he was an infidel, he should be ashamed to own it in a Catholic country in so gross a manner. If a heretic, why does he pollute with his presence so sacred a festival?'

Paul looked up to find four indignant pairs of eyes turned upon him. Only the Baron and his wife looked down and did not conceal their annoyance. The Englishman felt as if he must reply, and began, Monsieur le Curé; but again the little hand pinched his more anxiously still, and Madeleine hissed into his ear, For my sake do not answer.' She had learned the magic of those words for my sake already, and practised them in English against all emergencies.

The vulgar curé thought that the Englishman could find no words to defend himself with, and impertinently encouraged him.

'You were about to address me, sir; pray, go on; we are waiting to enjoy your eloquence.'

Paul grew red with rage, and Madeleine in terror said aloud to him in English, Do not hearken unto him; he is very bad wickt man.'

The sentence tickled Paul, and he turned to her with a laugh and loving look, for he began to rejoice in her now more than he could conceal. She returned his look with beaming eyes, and continued in English, Thank you! you are very good boy; thank you, my dear!' Little did poor Madeleine know the force of the last two words in English, and Paul was honourable enough to believe in her ignorance of his native idiom. But the words dwelt in him long after till he grew confident that his love was returned. We shall see. Meanwhile the curé continued in much the same strain, until tonguetied Paul turned upon him one of those haughty looks which none but an Englishman can give. This and his ominous silence frightened the curé, who had some crude idea that Englishmen were cannibals, and so he collapsed. Whereupon Madame de Ronville, in her hurry to change the odious topic, lighted on yet more dangerous ground.

So you have found one of your lost sheep, monsieur?'

You speak of Antoine Legrand, Madame la Baronne?

Madeleine turned slightly pale. Paul was watching her.

"Ah!' continued the curé, now in that happy state when no man has a secret from his neighbour, but is ready variis obsita frondibus sub divum rapere.' 'You have heard his history. It is strange.'

'No, where has he been to?'

To Paris, madame. Imagine that after wandering about in that great prototype of hell, for nights and days without finding any work to which he could turn his hand, he was addressed in the street one day by a Breton, who took him to a café somewhere near the Louvre, and gave him a dinner, as he said, because he was from the same country. Well, madame, this pretended Breton, who turned out to be nothing but a clever Parisian police spy, who had assumed the garb and dialect of our province- this lying

Breton, Madame la Baronne, and God's vengeance on all liars, Madame la Baronne-this Breton, I was saying.'

'Well, what the deuce did he do?' asked the Baron irritably.

Monsieur le Baron, this lying Breton induced this poor prodigal to tell him his history and promised him employment.'

'Is that all?' growled the Baron.

'Patience, mon cher Monsieur le Baron; patience. This wicked, lying, God-forsaken Breton-I mean Parisian personating a Breton; God punish all Parisians who personate our noble fellow-countrymen - he, messieurs and mesdames, found out that Antoine Legrand was in want of supper, bed, and all that appertains to the maintenance of life, which God-'

'Well, go on,' the Baron put in testily.

'Which le bon Dieu has given to men to maintain, and not to throw away, unless a man be an infidel or a heretic' (this glaring fiercely at Montague, and bringing his fist sharp down upon the table, to all of which Paul paid not the slightest attention, but took the opportunity of smiling at Madeleine), but if he be one or the other, as was said by the blessed St. Eustathius; it were well for him if a stone were appended to his neck, and he were cast-a violent hiccup concluded the quotation. Well, sir, this lying Parisian Breton found this out, and offered to give him a job; a job, monsieur, a job-for five francs, monsieur et madame, for five francs. Now, messieurs et mesdames, this job was to watch a certain house, to watch a house,' and at each repetition the excited curé gesticulated furiously with his fingers, turned round to each side of the table, as parsons do in the pulpit to each part of their congregation.

'From that moment,' he continued, Antoine Legrand became a spy; a spy, messieurs et mesdames-a spy'A police-spy' interrupted Paul eagerly.

The curé looked at him in amazement, and muttering low to his neighbour, but loud enough for Paul to hear, Je ne parle jamais aux hérétiques, he continued his story without answering.

'He became an agent of the police of the Emperor, whom God-'