dom.

"Sit down, my son," he said; "you have no doubt been staying with your
uncle." Auguste sat down, still staring.

"Does your aunt's health mend?"

"She is better to-night, father," said the son, in English which might
have been improved.

"I am glad of it," said Monsieur de St. Gre, taking a chair. "Andre,
fill the glasses."

The silent, linen-clad mulatto poured out the Madeira, shot a look at
Auguste, and retired softly.

"There has been a heavy rain, Monsieur," said Monsieur de St. Gre to me,
"but I think the air is not yet cleared. I was about to say, Mr.
Ritchie, when my son called to pay his respects, that the miniature of
which we were speaking is one of the most remarkable paintings I have
ever seen." Auguste's thin fingers were clutching the chair. "I have
never beheld Mademoiselle Helene de St. Gre, for my cousin, the Marquis,
was not married when I left France. He was a captain in a regiment of
his Majesty's Mousquetaires, since abolished. But I am sure that the
likeness of Mademoiselle must be a true one, for it has the stamp of a
remarkable personality, though Helene can be only eighteen. Women, with
us, mature quickly, Monsieur. And this portrait tallies with what I have
heard of her character. You no doubt observed the face, Monsieur,--that
of a true aristocrat. But I was speaking of her character. When she was
twelve, she said something to a cardinal for which her mother made her
keep her room a whole day. For Mademoiselle would not retract, and,
pardieu, I believe his Eminence was wrong. The Marquise is afraid of
her. And when first Helene was presented formally she made such a witty
retort to the Queen's sally that her Majesty insisted upon her coming to
court. On every New Year's day I have always sent a present of coffee
and perique to my cousin the Marquis, and it is Mademoiselle who writes
to thank us. Parole d'honneur, her letters make me see again the people
amongst whom she moves,--the dukes and duchesses, the cardinals, bishops,
and generals. She draws them to the life, Monsieur, with a touch that
makes them all ridiculous. His Majesty does not escape. God forgive
him, he is indeed an amiable, weak person for calling a States General.
And the Queen, a frivolous lady, but true to those whom she loves, and
beginning now to realize the perils of the situation." He paused. "Is
it any wonder that Auguste has fallen in love with his cousin, Monsieur?
That he loses his head, forgets that h