he hid himself
under a chair.

"I'll teach you to make that noise," muttered he, as he drew his chair
closer to the fire, and bent over it, shiveringly. "A yelping brute,
that would be all the better for hanging."

Having sat thus for a few moments, he seemed to grow restless again,
and, pushing back his chair, rose, looked out of the window, took a turn
or two across the room, and paused at length to take a book from one of
the side-tables. As he did this, our eyes met in the looking-glass;
whereupon he turned hastily back to the window, and stood there
whistling till it occurred to him to ring the bell again.

"Monsieur rang?" said the footman, once more making his appearance at
the door.

"_Mort de ma vie_! yes. The Seltzer-water."

"I have sent for it, Monsieur le Vicomte."

"And it is not yet come?"

"Not yet, Monsieur le Vicomte."

He muttered something to himself, and dropped back into the chair before
the fire.

"Does Madame de Courcelles know that I am here?" he asked, as the
servant, after lingering a moment, was about to leave the room.

"I delivered Monsieur le Vicomte's message, and brought back Madame's
reply," said the man, "half an hour ago."

"True--I had forgotten it. You may go."

The footman closed the door noiselessly, and had no sooner done so than
he was recalled by another impatient peal.

"Here, Henri--have you told Madame de Courcelles that this gentleman is
also waiting to see her?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte."

"_Eh bien_?"

"And Madame said she should be down in a few moments."

"_Sacredie_! go back, then, and inquire if...."

"Madame is here."

As the footman moved back respectfully, Madame de Courcelles came into
the room. She was looking perhaps somewhat paler, but, to my thinking,
more charming than ever. Her dark hair was gathered closely round her
head in massive braids, displaying to their utmost advantage all the
delicate curves of her throat and chin; while her rich morning dress,
made of some dark material, and fastened at the throat by a round brooch
of dead gold, fell in loose and ample folds, like the drapery of a Roman
matron. Coming at once to meet me, she extended a cordial hand,
and said:--

"I had begun to despair of ever seeing you again. Why have you always
come when I was out?"

"Madame," I said, bending low over the slender fingers, that seemed to
linger kindly in my own, "I have been undeservedly unfortunate."

"Remember for the future,"