from Paris had aroused
them. His answer was written, his hand was on the post-bag, and at that
moment the whole struggle had to be risked over again--risked when he
was most unfit for it! He was not a man under any ordinary circumstances
to procrastinate, but he procrastinated now.

"Night brings counsel; I will wait till to-morrow," he said to himself,
and put the letter of refusal in his pocket, and hastily quitted the
laboratory.

CHAPTER II.

Inexorably the important morrow came: irretrievably, for good or for
evil, the momentous marriage-vow was pronounced. Charles Danville and
Rose Trudaine were now man and wife. The prophecy of the magnificent
sunset overnight had not proved false. It was a cloudless day on
the marriage morning. The nuptial ceremonies had proceeded smoothly
throughout, and had even satisfied Madame Danville. She returned with
the wedding-party to Trudaine's house, all smiles and serenity. To
the bride she was graciousness itself. "Good girl," said the old lady,
following Rose into a corner, and patting her approvingly on the cheek
with her fan; "good girl, you have looked well this morning--you have
done credit to my son's taste. Indeed, you have pleased me, child! Now
go upstairs, and get on your traveling-dress, and count on my maternal
affection as long as you make Charles happy."

It had been arranged that the bride and bridegroom should pass their
honeymoon in Brittany, and then return to Danville's estate near Lyons.
The parting was hurried over, as all such partings should be. The
carriage had driven off; Trudaine, after lingering long to look after
it, had returned hastily to the house; the very dust of the whirling
wheels had all dispersed; there was absolutely nothing to see; and yet
there stood Monsieur Lomaque at the outer gate; idly, as if he was an
independent man--calmly, as if no such responsibilities as the calling
of Madame Danville's coach, and the escorting of Madame Danville back to
Lyons, could possibly rest on his shoulders.

Idly and calmly, slowly rubbing his hands one over the other, slowly
nodding his head in the direction by which the bride and bridegroom
had departed, stood the eccentric land-steward at the outer gate. On
a sudden the sound of footsteps approaching from the house seemed to
arouse him. Once more he looked out into the road, as if he expected
still to see the carriage of the newly-married couple. "Poor girl! ah,
poor girl!" said Monsieur Loma