bt be weary enough of the country to
be in raptures to return to Paris on any terms.

Yet even as Diane said this, a sort of longing for the solitude of the
woods of Nid-de-Merle came over her, a recollection of the good Sister
Monique, at whose knee she had breathed somewhat of the free pure air
that her murdered cousin had brought with him; a sense that there she
could pour forth her sorrow. She offered herself at once to go with
Eustacie.

'No, no, my daughter,' said the Chevalier, 'that is unnecessary. There
is pleasanter employment for you. I told you that your position was
secured. Here is a brilliant offer--M. de Selinville,'

_'Le bonhomme de Selinville!'_ exclaimed Diane, feeling rather as if the
compensation were like the little dog offered to Eustacie.

'Know ye not that his two heretic nephews perished the other night.
He is now the head of his name, the Marquis, the only one left of his
house.'

'He begins early,' said Diane.

'An old soldier, my daughter, scarce stays to count the fallen. He has
no time to lose. He is sixty, with a damaged constitution. It will be
but the affair of a few years, and then will my beautiful Marquise be
free to choose for herself. I shall go from the young Queen to obtain
permission from the Queen-mother.'

No question was asked. Diane never even thought objection possible. It
was a close to that present life which she had begun to loathe; it gave
comparative liberty. It would dull and confuse her heart-sick pain,
and give her a certain superiority to her brother. Moreover, it would
satisfy the old father, whom she really loved. Marriage with a worn-out
old man was a simple step to full display for young ladies without
fortune.

The Chevalier told Queen Elisabeth his purpose of placing his niece
in the family convent, under the care of her aunt, the Abbess, in a
foundation endowed by her own family on the borders of her own estate.
Elisabeth would have liked to keep her nearer, but could not but own
that the change to the scenes of her childhood might be more beneficial
than a residence in a nunnery at Paris, and the Chevalier spoke of
his niece with a tender solicitude that gained the Queen's heart.
She consented, only stipulating that Eustacie's real wishes should be
ascertained, and herself again made the exertion of visiting the patient
for the purpose.

Eustacie had been partly dressed, and was lying as near as she could to
the narrow window. The Queen would n