s again in the saddle and on his way to
Valricour.

Full of anxiety, and wholly unable to form any plan for want of
information as to the nature of the impending danger, he rode on, with
but scanty rest, stopping only for a few hours during each night. The
road to Valricour passed close to Beaujardin, and the sun was just
rising as he came to one of the side gates leading into the great
gardens of the chateau. Suddenly the thought occurred to him that he
would see his father once more, and make a final appeal to him. Prompt
to act on his resolves, he sprang from his horse, and telling his
attendant to await his return, entered the garden and made his way
towards the mansion. Ah, if only his path were as clear and straight
as those he was now treading--and yet the stiff formality of the vast
pleasure grounds seemed hideous and hateful to him. To think that
hundreds of thousands of livres should be spent on making nature as
unlike to herself as possible. Here were miles of straight gravel
walks and terraces, and hedges of almost incredible height, cut trimly
to pattern like gigantic green walls, with prim and formal arches cut
to the inch, and, for a change, long terraces with cold stone
balustrades and statues, which, instead of giving life, made everything
seem yet more lifeless. O for a thicket or a coppice, or a clump of
tangled brambles, to show that there was some sympathy in nature with
the tangled trouble of his heart! Yet the inflexible regularity of all
around him produced one effect on Isidore, and led him to make up his
mind on one point at least. He resolved that no consideration whatever
should induce him to give up Marguerite, or to desert at such a crisis
the poor girl who could have no hope but in his constancy. There were
moments in which he could not help thinking that the kindest thing he
could do would be to relinquish her, and thus free her at once from the
persecution she had incurred. Still he clung to the notion that his
father could not really intend to cast him off altogether. Yes, the
marquis had been indeed harsh and angry, but it could not be denied
that appearances gave him some excuse. These thoughts were passing
through his mind when he noticed that some one was dogging his steps.
In no mood to brook anything that looked like espionage he turned
sharply on the intruder, and, to his surprise, found that it was old
Achille Perigord.

"What! is it you?" said the young marquis.