ce, said quietly:

"It would be best--I--I--have not the same word to send as Phelypeaux.
The one that I shall ask you to carry will be 'No.'"

CHAPTER XI.

THE MARQUISE TELLS A STORY.

It was a vastly different repast from that of the Bishop of Lodeve's
which was offered to St. Georges, although the difference consisted
more, perhaps, in the manner of cooking and serving than in aught
else. The wine, which was excellent--though no better than that last
bottle from the old Clos--did not come in at the end, but cheered the
fasting and wayworn man from the commencement; the viands were in good
condition and properly prepared; the soup was not dishwater, but of a
good, sufficient quality. Moreover, here, as in the great _salon_, a
cheerful fire blazed on the hearth, instead of the spluttering,
snow-soaked logs that had hissed and smoked in Phelypeaux's house.
Also, he had for company two women, each beautiful according to her
time of life--women soft, gentle, and well bred--instead of the
cynical bishop of whom all France told strange tales.

Sitting there, his eyes resting sometimes on the budding loveliness of
Aurelie de Roquemaure, sometimes on the mellowed sweetness of the face
of the marquise, St. Georges forced himself to discard from his mind
the thought which he had now come to deem unworthy--the thought that
treachery lurked in their bosoms against him--that, though the present
marquis might be the man who had led the foul and despicable attack on
him in the graveyard at Aignay-le-Duc, they had had part or share in
it. For, he told himself, to believe this was to believe that there
was no faith nor honesty in womankind.

Yet one thing, at the commencement of the meal, and when the old
servant and another had withdrawn from the room, had almost served to
keep his suspicions alive. The marquise--as far as a woman of rank and
high breeding might do so--had asked him many questions about himself,
while Aurelie, following the rigidness which prevailed in French life
of the time, sat by, a silent listener, scarce joining in the
conversation at all.

And St. Georges, moved perhaps by the company in which he found
himself, and, soldier-like, scorning to conceal any part of his
history except that which he deemed absolutely necessary--he making no
reference whatever to the name of De Vannes--told them much of his
existence. His career in Holland until the peace; his lonely life in
garrison; his marriage wi