l the obligations of life.
She came back alone; her brother was speaking to her; she looked
troubled, there was something strange about it all, but Ratoneau was not
there. That, at least, was well; and how divinely beautiful she looked!

Angelot gazed for a minute or two, holding his breath; then a sudden
step and a voice in the corridor close by startled him violently. He had
left the door half open, standing where he could not be seen through it.
He now turned his head to see who was passing. It was the step of one
person only, a quick and agitated step. Was this person then speaking to
him? No, it was his cousin Herve de Sainfoy, and he was talking to
himself. He was repeating the same words over and over again: "But who
can save us? What shall I do? What shall I do? Who can save us? A way
out, he says? My God, there is none."

When his cousin had passed the door, Angelot stepped forward and looked
after him. It was impossible not to do so. The Comte was like a man who
had received some terrible blow. His face was white and drawn, and his
whole frame trembled as he walked. He carried an open letter shaking and
rustling in his hand, glanced at it now and then, flung his clenched
fists out on each side of him.

Then he said aloud, "My God, it is her doing!"

Angelot forgot all caution and stepped out into the corridor. His cousin
seemed to be walking on to his own room at the end; but before he
reached it he turned suddenly round and came hurrying back. Angelot
stood and faced him.

He, too, was pale from his imprisonment and the excitement of the night,
but as he met Herve de Sainfoy's astonished gaze the colour flooded his
young face and his brave bright eyes fell.

"_You_ here, Angelot?" said the Comte.

He spoke absently, gently, with no great surprise and no anger at all.
Angelot knew that he loved him, and felt the strangest desire to kneel
and kiss his hand.

"Pardon, monsieur"--he began quickly--"I was looking at the ball--I
leave France to-morrow, and--Can I help you, Uncle Herve?" For he saw
that the Comte was listening to no explanations of his. He stared
straight before him, frowning, biting his lips, shaking the letter in
his hand.

"It is some diabolical intrigue," he said. "How can you help, my poor
boy? No! but I would rather see her dead at my feet--for her own
sake--and the insult to me!"

"But tell me what it all means? Let me do something!" cried Angelot; for
the words thrilled him with