eur le Vicomte died in Vienna. He had lived too well."

"The Vicomte is dead?" I said.

They both looked at me. Indeed, I should not have recognized my own
voice. What my face betrayed, what my feelings were, I cannot say.
My heart beat no faster, there was no tumult in my brain, and yet--my
breath caught strangely. Something grew within me which is beyond the
measure of speech, and so it was meant to be.

"I did not know this myself until Helene returned to Les Iles," Monsieur
de St. Gre was saying to me. "The letter came to her the day after you
were taken ill. It was from the Baron von Seckenbruck, at whose house
the Vicomte died. She took it very calmly, for Helene is not a woman to
pretend. How much better, after all, if she had married her Englishman
for love! And she is much troubled now because, as she declares, she
is dependent upon my bounty. That is my happiness, my consolation," the
good man added simply, "and her father, the Marquis, was kind to me when
I was a young provincial and a stranger. God rest his soul!"

We were drawing near to Les Iles. The rains had come during my illness,
and in the level evening light the forest of the shore was the tender
green of spring. At length we saw the white wooden steps in the levee at
the landing, and near them were three figures waiting. We glided nearer.
One was Madame de St. Gre, another was Antoinette,--these I saw indeed.
The other was Helene, and it seemed to me that her eyes met mine across
the waters and drew them. Then we were at the landing. I heard Madame de
St. Gre's voice, and Antoinette's in welcome--I listened for another.
I saw Nick running up the steps; in the impetuosity of his love he had
seized Antoinette's hand in his, and she was the color of a red rose.
Creole decorum forbade further advances. Andre and another lifted
me out, and they gathered around me,--these kind people and devoted
friends,--Antoinette calling me, with exquisite shyness, by name; Madame
de St. Gre giving me a grave but gentle welcome, and asking anxiously
how I stood the journey. Another took my hand, held it for the briefest
space that has been marked out of time, and for that instant I looked
into her eyes. Life flowed back into me, and strength, and a joy not
to be fathomed. I could have walked; but they bore me through the
well-remembered vista, and the white gallery at the end of it was like
the sight of home. The evening air was laden with the scent of the
sweetest