rning to the old nobleman,
"I shall be glad if you will honour me by sharing my breakfast while
Citizen Ombreval is at his writing."

Des Cadoux looked up in some surprise.

"You are too good, Monsieur," said he, inclining his head. "But
afterwards?"

"I have decided," said La Boulaye, with the ghost of a smile, "to deal
with your case myself, Citizen."

The old dandy took a deep breath, but the glance of his blue eyes was
steadfast, and his lips smiled as he made answer:

"Again you are too good. I feared that you would carry me to Paris,
and at my age the journey is a tiresome one. I am grateful, and
meanwhile,--why, since you are so good as to invite me, let us
breakfast, by all means."

They sat down at a small table in the embrasure of the window, and their
hostess placed before them a boiled fowl, a dish of eggs, a stew of
herbs, and a flask of red wine, all of which La Boulaye had bidden her
prepare.

"Why, it is a feast," declared Des Cadoux, in excellent humour, and for
all that he was under the impression that he was to die in half-an-hour
he ate with the heartiest good-will, chatting pleasantly the while with
the Republican--the first Republican with whom it had ever been his
aristocratic lot to sit at table. And what time the meal proceeded
Ombreval--with two soldiers standing behind his chair-penned his letter
to Mademoiselle de Bellecour.

Had La Boulaye--inspired by the desire to avenge himself for the
treachery of which he had been the victim--dictated that epistle, t
could not have been indicted in a manner better suited to his ends.
It was a maudlin, piteous letter, in which, rather than making his
farewells, the Vicomte besought the aid of Suzanne. He was, he wrote,
in the hands of men who might be bribed, and since she was rich--for he
knew of the treasure with which she had escaped--he based his hopes upon
her employing a portion of her riches to obtaining his enlargement. She,
he continued, was his only hope, and for the sake of their love, for
the sake of their common nobility, he besought her not to fail him now.
Carried away by the piteousness of his entreaties the tears welled up to
his eyes and trickled down his cheeks, one or two of them finding their
way to the paper thus smearing it with an appeal more piteous still if
possible than that of his maudlin words.

At last the letter was ended. He sealed it with a wafer and wrote the
superscription:

"To Mademoiselle de Bellecour.