ttending, being absorbed in the study of
the handkerchief, which was of such fine, delicate texture that an
idea of its having been stolen possessed her; and she sought the corner
where, as she expected, a coat-of-arms was embroidered. Just as she was
looking up to demand explanation, the stranger, with a sudden cry of
'Good heavens, it is she!' pushed past her into the house, and falling
on his knee before Eustacie, exclaimed, 'O Lady, Lady, is it thus that I
see you?'

Eustacie had started up in dismay, crying out, 'Ah! M. l'Abbe, as you
are a gentleman, betray me not. Oh! have they sent you to find me? Have
pity on us! You loved my husband!'

'You have nothing to fear from me, Lady,' said the young man, still
kneeling; 'if you are indeed a distressed fugitive--so am I. If you have
shelter and friends--I have none.'

'Is it indeed so?' said Eustacie, wistfully, yet scarce reassured. 'You
are truly not come from my uncle. Indeed, Monsieur, I would not doubt
you, but you see I have so much at stake. I have my little one here, and
they mean so cruelly by her.'

'Madame, I swear by the honour of a nobleman--nay, by all that is
sacred--that I know nothing of your uncle. I have been a wanderer for
many weeks past; proscribed and hunted down because I wished to seek
into the truth.'

'Ah!' said Eustacie, with a sound of relief, and of apology, 'pardon
me, sir; indeed, I know you were good. You loved my husband;' and she
reached out her hand to raise him, when he kissed it reverently. Little
_bourgeoise_ and worn mendicant as they were in dress, the air of the
Louvre breathed round them; and there was all its grace and dignity as
the lady turned round to her astonished hosts, saying, 'Good sir, kind
mother, this gentleman is, indeed, what you took me for, a fugitive for
the truth. Permit me to present to you, Monsieur l'Abbe de Mericour--at
least, so he was, when last I had the honour to see him.'

The last time HE had seen her, poor Eustacie had been incapable of
seeing anything save that bloody pool at the foot of the stairs.

Mericour now turned and explained. 'Good friends,' he said courteously,
but with the _fierete_ of the noble not quite out of his tone, 'I beg
your grace. I would not have used so little ceremony, if I had not been
out of myself at recognizing a voice and a tune that could belong to
none but Madame---'

'Sit down, sir,' said Noemi, a little coldly and stiffly--for Mericour
was a terrible name