e torments of envy were visible upon Aunt Medea's countenance.

"'And what is to become of me?" she asked, in plaintive tones.

"You, aunt! You will remain here; you will be mistress of the chateau. A
trustworthy person must remain to watch over my poor father. You will be
happy and contented here, I hope."

But no; Aunt Medea did not seem satisfied.

"I shall never have courage to stay all alone in this great chateau,"
she whined.

"You foolish woman! will you not have the servants, the gardeners, and
the concierge to protect you?"

"That makes no difference. I am afraid of insane people. When the
marquis began to rave and howl this evening, I felt as if I should go
mad myself."

Blanche shrugged her shoulders.

"What _do_ you wish, then?" she asked, in a still more sarcastic manner.

"I thought--I wondered--if you would not take me with you."

"To Paris! You are crazy, I do believe. What would you do there?"

"Blanche, I entreat you, I beseech you, to do so!"

"Impossible, aunt; impossible!"

Aunt Medea seemed to be in despair.

"And what if I should tell you that I cannot remain here--that I dare
not--that I should die!"

A flush of impatience dyed the cheek of Mme. Blanche.

"You weary me beyond endurance," she said, rudely.

And with a gesture that increased the harshness of her words, she added:

"If Courtornieu displeases you so much, there is nothing to prevent you
from seeking a home more to your taste. You are free and of age."

Aunt Medea turned very pale, and she bit her lips until the blood came.

"That is to say," she said, at last, "you permit me to take my choice
between dying of fear at Courtornieu and ending my days in a hospital.
Thanks, my niece, thanks. That is like you. I expected nothing less of
you. Thanks!"

She raised her head, and a dangerous light gleamed in her eyes. There
was the hiss of a serpent in the voice in which she continued:

"Very well! this decides me. I entreated you, and you brutally refused
to heed my prayer, now I command and I say: 'I will go!' Yes, I intend
to go with you to Paris--and I shall go. Ah! it surprises you to hear
poor, meek, much-abused Aunt Medea speak in this way. I have endured in
silence for a long time, but I have rebelled at last. My life in this
house has been a hell. It is true that you have given me shelter--that
you have fed and lodged me; but you have taken my entire life in
exchange. What servant ever endured what I have en