from a
French convent. I--a wolf who had not hitherto even troubled to cover
my shaggy sides with a fleece. What could I do? Lucille was so gay, so
confiding, in a pretty girlish way which never altered as we came to
know each other better. Madame was so placid and easy-going--in her
stout black silk dress, with her lace-work. Monsieur de Clericy gave
me his confidence so unreservedly--what could I do but lapse into
virtue? And I venture to think that many a blacker sheep than myself
would have blanched in the midst of so pure a flock.

One evening Madame asked me to join the family circle in the
drawing-room. The room was very pretty and homelike--quite unlike our
grim drawing-room at Hopton, where my father never willingly set foot
since its rightful owner had passed elsewhere. There were flowers in
abundance--their scent filled the air--from the Var estate in
Provence, which had been Madame's home and formed part of the _dot_
she brought into the diminishing Clericy coffers. Two lamps
illuminated the room rather dimly, and a pair of candles stood on the
piano.

[Illustration: "YOU ARE SAD," SAID LUCILLE, WITH A LITTLE LAUGH, "WITH
YOUR FACE IN YOUR HAND COMME CA."]

Monsieur de Clericy played a game at bezique with Madame, who chuckled
a good deal at her own mistakes with the cards, and then asked Lucille
for some music. The girl sat down at the piano, and there, to her own
accompaniment, without the printed score, sang such songs of Provence
as tug at the heart strings, one knows not why. There seemed to be a
wail in the music--and in slurring, as it were, from one note to the
other--a trick such Southern songs demand--I heard the tone I loved.

Madame listened while she worked. The Vicomte dropped gently to sleep.
I sat with my elbow on my knee and looked at the carpet. And when the
voice rose and fell, I knew that none other had the same message for
me.

"You are sad," said Lucille, with a little laugh, "with your face in
your hand, comme ca."

And she imitated my position and expression with a merry toss of the
head. "Are you thinking of your sins?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle," answered I, truthfully enough.

Many evenings I passed thus in the peaceful family circle--and always
Lucille sang those gaily sad little songs of Provence.

The weeks slipped by, and the outer world was busy with great doings,
while we in the Rue des Palmiers seemed to stand aside and watch the
events go past.

The Emperor--than wh