t his happy young life had ever known.
The elder man did not speak till Helene, with that last little cry, had
disappeared from the window. Then he looked at Angelot.

"I am sorry, Ange," he said, "for I owe a good deal to your father. But
I will ask you to wait here while I fetch my pistols. It is best to
settle such a matter on the spot--though you hardly deserve to be so
well treated."

"Monsieur--" Angelot almost choked.

"Ah! Do not trouble yourself to hunt for excuses--there are none," said
the Comte.

He was moving off, but Angelot threw himself in his way.

"Bring one pistol," he said. "One will be enough, for I cannot fight
you--you know it. But you may kill me if it pleases you."

Herve shrugged his shoulders.

"How long has this been going on? How many times have you met my
daughter clandestinely? Does it seem to you the behaviour of a
gentleman? On my soul, you deserve to be shot down like a dog, as you
say!"

"No, monsieur," Angelot said quickly, "I give you leave to do it, for I
see now that life must be misery. But I have done no such harm as to
deserve to be shot! No! I love and adore my cousin, and you must have
known it--every one knows it, I should think. Can I sit quietly at home
while her family gives her the choice between General Ratoneau and a
convent? No, I confess it is more than I can bear."

"And if her family had given her such a choice--which is false, by the
bye--what could you do? Is it likely that they would change their minds
and give her to you, as your uncle Joseph suggested? And would you
expect to gain their favour by this sort of thing?" He pointed to the
window. "No, young man; if you were not your father's son, my grooms
might whip you out of Lancilly, and I should feel justified in giving
the order."

Angelot broke into a short laugh. "A pistol-shot is not an insult," he
said. "But you are angry."

"And you are Urbain's son," the Comte said.

There was a world of reproach in the words, but little violent anger.
The two men stood and looked at each other; and it was not the least
strange part of the position that they were still, as they had been all
along, mutually attracted. Both natures were open, sweet-tempered, and
generous. A certain grace and charm about Herve de Sainfoy drew Angelot,
as it had drawn his father. The touch of romance in Angelot, his beauty,
his bold, defiant air, took Herve's fancy.

"You climb like a monkey or a sailor," he said. "But you