Monsieur, I suppose," she
added, slowly, turning down her sleeves.

"Yes, the Marquis writes that he is on his way to Gemosac and wishes you
to prepare the chateau for his return."

The Abbe waved his hand toward the castle gates with an air suggestive
of retainers and lackeys, of busy stables and a hundred windows lighted
after dark. His round eyes did not meet the direct glance fixed on
his face, but wandered from one object to another in the room, finally
lighting on the great key of the chateau gate, which hung on a nail
behind the door.

"Then Monsieur le Marquis is coming into residence," said Marie,
gravely.

And by way of reply the Abbe waved his hand a second time toward the
castle walls.

"And the worst of it is," he added, timidly, to this silent admission,
"that he brings a guest."

He moistened his fat lips and sat smiling in a foolish way at the open
door; for he was afraid of all women, and most afraid of Marie.

"Ah!" she retorted, shortly. "To sleep in the oubliette, one may
suppose. For there is no other bed in the chateau, as you quite well
know, Monsieur l'Abbe. It is another of your kings no doubt. Oh! you
need not hold up your hands--when Monsieur Albert reads aloud that
letter from Monsieur le Marquis, in England, without so much as closing
the door of the banquet hall! It is as well that it was no other than I
who stood on the stairs outside and heard all."

"But it is wrong to listen behind doors," protested the Abbe.

"Ah, bah!" replied this unregenerate sheep of his flock. "But do not
alarm yourself, Monsieur l'Abbe, I can keep a quiet tongue. And a
political secret--what is it? It is an amusement for the rich--your
politics--but a vice for the poor. Come, let us go to the chateau, while
there is still day, and you can see for yourself whether we are ready
for a guest."

While she spoke she hastily completed a toilet, which, despite the
Abbe's caution, had the appearance of incompleteness, and taking the
great key from behind the door, led the way out into the glare of the
setting sun. She unlocked the great gate and threw her weight against it
with quick, firm movements like the movements of a man. Indeed, she was
a better man than her companion; of a stronger common sense; with
lither limbs and a stouter heart; the best man that France has latterly
produced, and, so far as the student of racial degeneration may
foretell, will ever produce again--her middle-class woman.

Built