consent. But if you care for me at all do
not let me lose my life in a misapprehension; for I love you better than
the whole world; and though I will die for you blithely, it would be
like all the joys of Paradise to live on and spend my life in your
service."

As he stopped speaking, a bell began to ring loudly in the interior of
the house; and a clatter of armour in the corridor showed that the
retainers were returning to their post, and the two hours were at an
end.

"After all that you have heard?" she whispered, leaning towards him with
her lips and eyes.

"I have heard nothing," he replied.

"The captain's name was Florimond de Champdivers," she said in his ear.

"I did not hear it," he answered, taking her supple body in his arms and
covered her wet face with kisses.

A melodious chirping was audible behind, followed by a beautiful
chuckle, and the voice of Messire de Maletroit wished his new nephew a
good morning.

PROVIDENCE AND THE GUITAR

CHAPTER I

Monsieur Leon Berthelini had a great care of his appearance, and
sedulously suited his deportment to the costume of the hour. He affected
something Spanish in his air, and something of the bandit, with a
flavour of Rembrandt at home. In person he was decidedly small, and
inclined to be stout; his face was the picture of good-humour; his dark
eyes, which were very expressive, told of a kind heart, a brisk, merry
nature, and the most indefatigable spirits. If he had worn the clothes
of the period you would have set him down for a hitherto undiscovered
hybrid between the barber, the innkeeper, and the affable dispensing
chemist. But in the outrageous bravery of velvet jacket and flapped hat,
with trousers that were more accurately described as fleshings, a white
handkerchief cavalierly knotted at his neck, a shock of Olympian curls
upon his brow, and his feet shod through all weathers in the slenderest
of Moliere shoes--you had but to look at him and you knew you were in
the presence of a Great Creature. When he wore an overcoat he scorned to
pass the sleeves; a single button held it round his shoulders; it was
tossed backwards after the manner of a cloak, and carried with the gait
and presence of an Almaviva. I am of opinion that M. Berthelini was
nearing forty. But he had a boy's heart, gloried in his finery, and
walked through life like a child in a perpetual dramatic performance. If
he were not Almaviva after all, it was not for lack of