and future--with rising
emotion, felt the incongruity of her presence, and could not keep back
the falling tears that made answer for her.

But in Mlle. Armande the Christian overcame Victurnien's aunt. "Ah, I
was wrong; forgive me, Mme. la Duchesse; you did not know how poor we
were, and my nephew was incapable of the admission. And besides, now
that I see you, I can understand all--even the crime!"

And Mlle. Armande, withered and thin and white, but beautiful as those
tall austere slender figures which German art alone can paint, had
tears too in her eyes.

"Do not fear, dear angel," the Duchess said at last; "he is safe."

"Yes, but honor?--and his career? Chesnel told me; the King knows the
truth."

"We will think of a way of repairing the evil," said the Duchess.

Mlle. Armande went downstairs to the salon, and found the Collection
of Antiquities complete to a man. Every one of them had come, partly
to do honor to the Bishop, partly to rally round the Marquis; but
Chesnel, posted in the antechamber, warned each new arrival to say no
word of the affair, that the aged Marquis might never know that such a
thing had been. The loyal Frank was quite capable of killing his son
or du Croisier; for either the one or the other must have been guilty
of death in his eyes. It chanced, strangely enough, that he talked
more of Victurnien than usual; he was glad that his son had gone back
to Paris. The King would give Victurnien a place before very long; the
King was interesting himself at last in the d'Esgrignons. And his
friends, their hearts dead within them, praised Victurnien's conduct
to the skies. Mlle. Armande prepared the way for her nephew's sudden
appearance among them by remarking to her brother that Victurnien
would be sure to come to see them, and that he must be even then on
his way.

"Bah!" said the Marquis, standing with his back to the hearth, "if he
is doing well where he is, he ought to stay there, and not be thinking
of the joy it would give his old father to see him again. The King's
service has the first claim."

Scarcely one of those present heard the words without a shudder.
Justice might give over a d'Esgrignon to the executioner's branding
iron. There was a dreadful pause. The old Marquise de Casteran could
not keep back a tear that stole down over her rouge, and turned her
head away to hide it.

Next day at noon, in the sunny weather, a whole excited population was
dispersed in groups alon