tle roses, passionately inhaled its
delicate fragrance and pressed a kiss upon it, as if it had been her
lips, which were not less sweet, and soft, and fresh. He had done
nothing but think of Isabelle ever since their separation, and he fully
realized now, if he had not before, how indispensable she was to his
happiness. She was never out of his mind, waking or sleeping, for he
dreamed of her every night, and his love grew fonder, if that were
possible, as the weary days went on. She was so good and true, so pure
and sweet, so beautiful, so everything that was lovely and desirable,
"made of all creatures' best," a veritable angel in human guise. Ah!
how passionately he loved her--how could he live without her? Yet
he feared--he was almost forced to believe--that he had lost her
irreparably, and that for him hope was dead. Those were terrible days
for the poor, grief-stricken young baron, and he felt that he could not
long endure such misery and live. Two or three months passed away thus,
and one day when de Sigognac chanced to be in his own room, finishing
a sonnet addressed to Isabelle, Pierre entered, and announced to his
master that there was a gentleman without who wished to speak with him.

"A gentleman, who wants to see me!" exclaimed the astonished baron. "You
must be either romancing or mad, my good Pierre! There is no gentleman
in the world who can have anything to say to me. However, for the rarity
of the thing, you may bring in this extraordinary mortal--if such there
really be, and you are not dreaming, as I shrewdly suspect. But tell me
his name first, or hasn't he got any?"

"He declined to give it, saying that it would not afford your lordship
any information," Pierre made answer, as he turned back and opened wide
both leaves of the door.

Upon the threshold appeared a handsome young man, dressed in a rich and
elegant travelling costume of chestnut brown cloth trimmed with green,
and holding in his hand a broad felt hat with a long green plume;
leaving his well shaped, proudly carried head fully exposed to view, as
well as the delicate, regular features of a face worthy of an ancient
Greek statue. The sight of this fine cavalier did not seem to make an
agreeable impression upon de Sigognac, who turned very pale, and rushing
to where his trusty sword was suspended, over the head of his bed, drew
it from the scabbard, and turned to face the new-comer with the naked
blade in his hand.

"By heaven, my lor