t with freedom and simplicity; but he thought he
noticed a gradual change in the later ones, which appeared to proceed
more from the mind than the heart. A style which aimed at being natural
was interspersed with unnecessary expressions of affection, unusual
between married people well assured of their mutual love. Monsieur de
Lamotte observed and exaggerated these peculiarities, and though
endeavouring to persuade himself that he was mistaken, he could not
forget them, or regain his usual tranquility. Being somewhat ashamed of
his anxiety, he kept his fears to himself.

One morning, as he was sunk in a large armchair by the fire, his
sitting-room door opened, and the cure entered, who was surprised by his
despondent, sad, and pale appearance. "What is the matter?" he inquired,
"Have you had an extra bad night?"

"Yes," answered Monsieur de Lamotte.

"Well, have you any news from Paris?"

"Nothing for a whole week: it is odd, is it not?"

"I am always hoping that this sale may fall through; it drags on for so
very long; and I believe that Monsieur Derues, in spite of what your wife
wrote a month ago, has not as much money as he pretends to have. Do you
know that it is said that Monsieur Despeignes-Duplessis, Madame Derues'
relative, whose money they inherited, was assassinated?"

"Where did you hear that?"

"It is a common report in the country, and was brought here by a man who
came recently from Beauvais."

"Have the murderers been discovered?"

"Apparently not; justice seems unable to discover anything at all."

Monsieur de Lamotte hung his head, and his countenance assumed an
expression of painful thought, as though this news affected him
personally.

"Frankly," resumed the cure, "I believe you will remain Seigneur du
Buisson-Souef, and that I shall be spared the pain of writing another
name over your seat in the church of Villeneuve."

"The affair must be settled in a few days, for I can wait no longer; if
the purchaser be not Monsieur Derues, it will have to be someone else.
What makes you think he is short of money?"

"Oh! oh!" said the cure, "a man who has money either pays his debts, or
is a cheat. Now Heaven preserve me from suspecting Monsieur Derues'
honesty!"

"What do you know about him?"

"Do you remember Brother Marchois of the Camaldulians, who came to see me
last spring, and who was here the day Monsieur Derues arrived, with your
wife and Edouard?"

"Perfectly. Well?"

"We