ation out-of-doors was growing more strained, the
storms which were agitating Paris and desolating so many homes affected
the little household in no other way. The Vicomte kept necessarily
within, spending most of his time in reading. Mademoiselle Claire also
went seldom abroad; and it followed that during the long July days when
the sunshine flooded the second floor, in the early mornings when the
sparrows perched on the open jalousies and twittered gaily, or in the
grey evenings, when the night fell slowly, they met from time to
time--met not infrequently. On such occasions the Vicomte noticed that
Baudouin was never far distant. The secretary, as a rule, put in an
appearance before the conversation had lasted ten minutes.

Bercy began to suspect the cause of this, and one day he happened upon a
discovery. He was sitting in M. Mirande's room, when the sound of a
raised voice made him lay down his book and listen. The voice seemed to
come from the parlour. Once he was assured of this, and that the
speaker, whose anger was apparent, was not Mirande, he took his steps.
He stole out upon the lobby, and found the parlour door as he had
suspected slightly ajar. Any scruples he might have entertained were
dispelled by the certainty that the speaker was Baudouin and that the
person whom he was addressing in harsh and vehement tones, was
Mademoiselle Claire. The Vicomte drew himself up behind the door and
listened.

"What would I have?" were the first words he caught. "Little enough,
heaven knows! Little enough! What have I ever asked except to be allowed
to serve? To gratify your least caprice. To be at your beck and call. To
fetch and carry while another basked in your smiles. That is all I asked
in the old days and I ask no more now. I am content to serve and wait
and hope. But I will have--no stranger come between us. Not again! Not
again!"

"You do not understand, M. Baudouin," the girl answered hurriedly.

"Do I not?" he cried. "Perhaps I did not understand last time. But this
time I do. I do! It had been well for you had I known more then!"

"Spare me," she said faintly, overcome apparently by some hidden meaning
in his words.

"That you may amuse yourself with this stranger?" he retorted. "No, I
have given way enough. It had been better, as I say, if I had not,
mademoiselle."

The stress he laid on the last word was unintelligible to the hidden
listener, who knew only that it veiled an insult and drew nearer to