, what master-stroke of policy can even the genius of M. Jasmin
devise to overcome such obstacles?"

The valet's wits were too blunted to detect the irony, but he drank in
the flattery as he sipped his wine. "Bah!" replied he, "our young
master can have his choice between a union with Mademoiselle Clotilde
or a _lettre de cachet_; and as for pretty Mademoiselle Lacroix, as she
has no particular home of her own, she ought to be grateful if we find
her one in some convent where the lady superior is not too fond of
letting her _protegees_ gad abroad--you understand?"

"Yes; but what if she should appeal to the baron, who, as we know,
pledged himself to protect the poor orphan, and should refuse to permit
her to go just wherever she is bid?" As he spoke these words M.
Perigord clutched the chair in which he sat as if to keep himself
steady, whilst a nervous twitching seemed to convulse his lilliputian
frame.

"Oh, leave that to me," rejoined the valet; "I warrant you I'll find a
way when the time comes, and that will very likely be no further off
than to-morrow, to tempt the silly little bird into the snare of the
fowler." Saying this, the valet rose as if to depart, but at the same
moment the fiery little king of the kitchen bounded from his chair,
sprang at him, and seized him by the throat, exclaiming--

"Traitor! miscreant! Is this your duty, faith, and loyalty to your
young master? If all men had their due your false and cowardly heart
should be torn out of your bosom for daring thus to plot against a
noble and beautiful young lady, whom one would think even the meanest
would feel bound to help and protect."

[Illustration: "The fiery little king of the kitchen bounded from his
chair, sprang at him, and seized him by the throat."]

M. Boulederouloue rose from his chair and stood aghast, ejaculating
solemnly, "It is terrible!"

"And to think that such a scoundrel should be trusted by madame the
baroness! Shame upon her! It is abominable!" Saying which M.
Perigord, who had by this time let go the valet's throat, snatched off
his own wig and dashed it passionately on the floor. "Begone,
despicable scoundrel that you are," he added, as the valet, with a
malignant scowl, but without venturing to utter a word, made his way to
the door. "Begone! go to madame if you like, and tell her that if old
Achille Perigord can do anything to save our young master and this poor
young lady from your horrible schemes he w