ead of soldiers,--no doubt relieving the guard in the
church which she had herself demanded. She trembled violently and raised
her eyes to the cross on the altar.

"A saint at last," said Francine, in a low voice.

"Give me such saints, and I'll be devilishly devout," added the count,
in a whisper.

When the priest made the customary inquiry of Mademoiselle de Verneuil,
she answered by a "yes" uttered with a deep sigh. Bending to her
husband's ear she said: "You will soon know why I have broken the oath I
made never to marry you."

After the ceremony all present passed into the dining-room, where dinner
was served, and as they took their places Jeremie, Marie's footman, came
into the room terrified. The poor bride rose and went to him; Francine
followed her. With one of those pretexts which never fail a woman, she
begged the marquis to do the honors for a moment, and went out, taking
Jeremie with her before he could utter the fatal words.

"Ah! Francine, to be dying a thousand deaths and not to die!" she cried.

This absence might well be supposed to have its cause in the ceremony
that had just taken place. Towards the end of the dinner, as the marquis
was beginning to feel uneasy, Marie returned in all the pomp of a bridal
robe. Her face was calm and joyful, while that of Francine who followed
her had terror imprinted on every feature, so that the guests might well
have thought they saw in these two women a fantastic picture by Salvator
Rosa, of Life and Death holding each other by the hand.

"Gentlemen," said Marie to the priest, the baron, and the count, "you
are my guests for the night. I find you cannot leave Fougeres; it would
be dangerous to attempt it. My good maid has instructions to make you
comfortable in your apartments. No, you must not rebel," she added to
the priest, who was about to speak. "I hope you will not thwart a woman
on her wedding-day."

An hour later she was alone with her husband in the room she had so
joyously arranged a few hours earlier. They had reached that fatal bed
where, like a tomb, so many hopes are wrecked, where the waking to a
happy life is all uncertain, where love is born or dies, according to
the natures that are tried there. Marie looked at the clock. "Six hours
to live," she murmured.

"Can I have slept?" she cried toward morning, wakening with one of those
sudden movements which rouse us when we have made ourselves a promise to
wake at a certain hour. "Yes, I have