me, both for your own sake and for mine,' said she.
'For your sake because I suspected, as I have told you, that my father's
intentions might be unfriendly. For mine--'

'Why for yours?' I asked in surprise, for she had stopped in
embarrassment.

'You have told me that your heart is another's. I may tell you that my
hand is also promised, and that my love has gone with it.'

'May all happiness attend it!' said I. 'But why should this make my
coming unwelcome?'

'That thick English air has dimmed your wits, cousin,' said she, shaking
her stately head at me. 'But I can speak freely now that I know that
this plan would be as hateful to you as to me. You must know, then,
that if my father could have married us he would have united all claims
to the succession of Grosbois. Then, come what might--Bourbon or
Buonaparte--nothing could shake his position.'

I thought of the solicitude which he had shown over my toilet in the
morning, his anxiety that I should make a favourable impression, his
displeasure when she had been cold to me, and the smile upon his face
when he had seen us hand in hand.

'I believe you are right!' I cried.

'Right! Of course I am right! Look at him watching us now.'

We were walking on the edge of the dried moat, and as I looked up there,
sure enough, was the little yellow face toned towards us in the angle of
one of the windows. Seeing that I was watching him, he rose and waved
his hand merrily.

'Now you know why he saved your life--since you say that he saved it,'
said she. 'It would suit his plans best that you should marry his
daughter, and so he wished you to live. But when once he understands
that that is impossible, why then, my poor Cousin Louis, his only way of
guarding against the return of the de Lavals must lie in ensuring that
there are none to return.'

It was those words of hers, coupled with that furtive yellow face still
lurking at the window, which made me realise the imminence of my danger.
No one in France had any reason to take an interest in me. If I were to
pass away there was no one who could make inquiry--I was absolutely in
his power. My memory told me what a ruthless and dangerous man it was
with whom I had to deal.

'But,' said I, 'he must have known that your affections were already
engaged.'

'He did,' she answered; 'it was that which made me most uneasy of all.
I was afraid for you and afraid for myself, but, most of all, I was
afraid for Lucie