which Madame du Chatelet had great concern, and which
Monsieur Voltaire ultimately won for her. And this, too, accounted for
Gaston Cheverny's and Jacques Haret's presence, as both of them were
born and reared within sight of Honsbrouck.

Gaston Cheverny and Jacques Haret both bent over the map. Jacques
Haret, taking a pen, began to draw a line upon the map.

"This," he said, "is the line of the brook; you see it skirts the
estate of Castle Haret, once mine, then the property of Monsieur
Gaston Cheverny's brother, Monsieur Regnard Cheverny, who sold it for
a large sum of money. By the way, Gaston, has it ever occurred to you
that your brother may be dead, and that his properties may be yours?"

"No," replied Gaston, "because my brother's agent in London still
administers the property."

"But the agent may be a rogue, and may administer it for himself,"
said Monsieur Voltaire.

"Perhaps," replied Gaston, nonchalantly, "but as my brother and I took
different sides in 1733, we became estranged, and whether one dies or
lives matters nothing to the other. But the brook, Jacques, runs this
way."

He took the pen from Jacques Haret's hand, and as clearly and steadily
as ever I wrote for Count Saxe, Gaston Cheverny drew a line across the
map with his right hand.

"I should not be surprised, Gaston, if you entirely recovered the use
of your right hand and arm," said Jacques Haret, fixing a penetrating
look upon Gaston Cheverny.

Gaston threw down the pen with a look of absolute terror upon his
face. His action had evidently been involuntary. I was stunned by it,
and I saw a tremor pass through Francezka's frame. Gaston, however,
soon recovered himself.

"Yes," he said, "perhaps the use of it may come back, but I shall
never be able to write with this hand. It is, however, no great
matter, because I have learned to write tolerably well with my left
hand."

"That's not my opinion; worse, or more awkward writing I never saw,"
was Jacques Haret's answer, "and I believe you can write perfectly
well with your right hand when you choose."

From the first hour I had met Gaston Cheverny in the old prison of the
Temple I had ever found him hot-headed to a fault. He was one of those
men to whom an impertinence is the greatest of injuries. This remark
of Jacques Haret, made in a taunting manner, was enough in the old
days to have got a blow for him from the fist of Gaston Cheverny. No
such thing now, however. Gaston only turn