-the poor old Marquis saw the death of the
loveliest of human creatures, a noble woman in whom the charm of the
feminine figures of the sixteenth century lived again, a charm now lost
save to men's imaginations. With her death the joy died out of his old
age. It was one of those terrible shocks which reverberate through every
moment of the years that follow. For a few moments he stood beside the
bed where his wife lay, with her hands folded like a saint, then he
kissed her on the forehead, turned away, drew out his watch, broke the
mainspring, and hung it up beside the hearth. It was eleven o'clock in
the morning.

"Mlle. d'Esgrignon," he said, "let us pray God that this hour may not
prove fatal yet again to our house. My uncle the archbishop was murdered
at this hour; at this hour also my father died----"

He knelt down beside the bed and buried his face in the coverlet; his
sister did the same, in another moment they both rose to their feet.
Mlle. d'Esgrignon burst into tears; but the old Marquis looked with dry
eyes at the child, round the room, and again on his dead wife. To the
stubbornness of the Frank he united the fortitude of a Christian.

These things came to pass in the second year of the nineteenth century.
Mlle. d'Esgrignon was then twenty-seven years of age. She was a
beautiful woman. An ex-contractor for forage to the armies of the
Republic, a man of the district, with an income of six thousand francs,
persuaded Chesnel to carry a proposal of marriage to the lady. The
Marquis and his sister were alike indignant with such presumption in
their man of business, and Chesnel was almost heartbroken; he could not
forgive himself for yielding to the Sieur du Croisier's [du Bousquier]
blandishments. The Marquis' manner with his old servant changed
somewhat; never again was there quite the old affectionate kindliness,
which might almost have been taken for friendship. From that time forth
the Marquis was grateful, and his magnanimous and sincere gratitude
continually wounded the poor notary's feelings. To some sublime natures
gratitude seems an excessive payment; they would rather have that sweet
equality of feeling which springs from similar ways of thought, and the
blending of two spirits by their own choice and will. And Maitre Chesnel
had known the delights of such high friendship; the Marquis had raised
him to his own level. The old noble looked on the good notary as
something more than a servant, something