“if i go on, i go alone,” barebone had once said to dormer colville. the words, spoken in the heat of a quarrel, stuck in the memory of both, as such are wont to do. perhaps, in moments of anger or disillusionment—when we find that neither self nor friend is what we thought—the heart tears itself away from the grip of the cooler, calmer brain and speaks untrammelled. and such speeches are apt to linger in the mind long after the most brilliant jeu d'esprit has been forgotten.

what occupies the thoughts of the old man, sitting out the grey remainder of the day, over the embers of a hearth which he will only quit when he quits the world? does he remember the brilliant sallies of wit, the greatest triumphs of the noblest minds with which he has consorted; or does his memory cling to some scene—simple, pastoral, without incident—which passed before his eyes at a moment when his heart was sore or glad? when his mind is resting from its labours and the sound of the grinding is low, he will scarce remember the neat saying or the lofty thought clothed in perfect language; but he will never forget a hasty word spoken in an unguarded moment by one who was not clever at all, nor even possessed the worldly wisdom to shield the heart behind the buckler of the brain.

“you will find things changed,” colville had said, as they walked across the marsh from farlingford, toward the ipswich road. and the words came back to the minds of both, on that thursday of madame de chantonnay, which many remember to this day. not only did they find things changed, but themselves they found no longer the same. both remembered the quarrel, and the outcome of it.

colville, ever tolerant, always leaning toward the compromise that eases a doubting conscience, had, it would almost seem unconsciously, prepared the way for a reconciliation before there was any question of a difference. on their way back to france, without directly referring to that fatal portrait and the revelation caused by barebone's unaccountable feat of memory, he had smoothed away any possible scruple.

“france must always be deceived,” he had said, a hundred times. “better that she should be deceived for an honest than a dishonest purpose—if it is deception, after all, which is very doubtful. the best patriot is he who is ready to save his country at the cost of his own ease, whether of body or of mind. it does not matter who or what you are; it is what or who the world thinks you to be, that is of importance.”

which of us has not listened to a score of such arguments, not always from the lips of a friend, but most often in that still, small voice which rarely has the courage to stand out against the tendency of the age? there is nothing so contagious as laxity of conscience.

barebone listened to the good-natured, sympathetic voice with a make-believe conviction which was part of his readiness to put off an evil moment. colville was a difficult man to quarrel with. it seemed bearish and ill-natured to take amiss any word or action which could only be the outcome of a singularly tender consideration for the feelings of others.

but when they entered madame de chantonnay's drawing-room—when dormer, impelled by some instinct of the fitness of things, stepped aside and motioned to his companion to pass in first—the secret they had in common yawned suddenly like a gulf between them. for the possession of a secret either estranges or draws together. more commonly, it estranges. for which of us is careful of a secret that redounds to our credit? nearly every secret is a hidden disgrace; and such a possession, held in common with another, is not likely to insure affection.

colville lingered on the threshold, watching loo make the first steps of that progress which must henceforth be pursued alone. he looked round for a friendly face, but no one had eyes for him. they were all looking at loo barebone. colville sought mrs. st. pierre lawrence, usually in full evidence, even in a room full of beautiful women and distinguished men. but she was not there. for a minute or two no one noticed him; and then albert de chantonnay, remembering his role, came forward to greet the englishman.

“it was,” explained colville, in a lowered voice, “as we thought. an attempt was made to get him out of the way, but he effected his escape. he knew, however, the danger of attempting to communicate with any of us by post, and was awaiting some opportunity of transmitting a letter by a safe hand, when i discovered his hiding-place.”

and this was the story that went half round france, from lip to lip, among those who were faithful to the traditions of a glorious past.

“madame st. pierre lawrence,” albert de chantonnay told colville, in reply, “is not here to-night. she is, however, at her villa, at royan. she has not, perhaps, displayed such interest in our meetings as she did before you departed on your long journey through france. but her generosity is unchanged. the money, which, in the hurry of the moment, you did not withdraw from her bank—”

“i doubt whether it was ever there,” interrupted colville.

“she informs me,” concluded albert, “is still at our service. we have many other promises, which must now be recalled to the minds of those who made them. but from no one have we received such generous support as from your kinswoman.”

they were standing apart, and in a few minutes the marquis de gemosac joined them.

“how daring! how audacious!” he whispered, “and yet how opportune—this return. it is all to be recommenced, my friends, with a firmer grasp, a new courage.”

“but my task is accomplished,” returned colville. “you have no further use for a mere englishman, like myself. i was fortunate in being able to lend some slight assistance in the original discovery of our friend; i have again been lucky enough to restore him to you. and now, with your permission, i will return to royan, where i have my little apartment, as you know.”

he looked from one to the other, with his melancholy and self-deprecating smile.

“voila,” he added; “it remains for me to pay my respects to madame de chantonnay. we have travelled far, and i am tired. i shall ask her to excuse me.”

“and monsieur de bourbon comes to gemosac. that is understood. he will be safe there. his apartments have been in readiness for him these last two months. hidden there, or in other dwellings—grander and better served, perhaps, than my poor ruin, but no safer—he can continue the great work he began so well last winter. as for you, my dear colville,” continued the marquis, taking the englishman's two hands in his, “i envy you from the bottom of my heart. it is not given to many to serve france as you have served her—to serve a king as you have served one. it will be my business to see that both remember you. for france, i allow, sometimes forgets. go to royan, since you wish—but it is only for a time. you will be called to paris some day, that i promise you.”

the marquis would have embraced him then and there, had the cool-blooded englishman shown the smallest desire for that honour. but dormer colville's sad and doubting smile held at arms' length one who was always at the mercy of his own eloquence.

the card tables had lost their attraction; and, although many parties were formed, and the cards were dealt, the players fell to talking across the ungathered tricks, and even the abbe touvent was caught tripping in the matter of a point.

“never,” exclaimed madame de chantonnay, as her guests took leave at their wonted hour, and some of them even later—“never have i had a thursday so dull and yet so full of incident.”

“and never, madame,” replied the marquis, still on tiptoe, as it were, with delight and excitement, “shall we see another like it.”

loo went back to gemosac with the fluttering old man and juliette. juliette, indeed, was in no flutter, but had carried herself through the excitement of her first evening party with a demure little air of self-possession.

she had scarce spoken to loo during the evening. indeed, it had been his duty to attend on madame de chantonnay and on the older members of these quiet royalist families biding their time in the remote country villages of guienne and the vendee.

on the journey home, the marquis had so much to tell his companion, and told it so hurriedly, that his was the only voice heard above the rattle of the heavy, old-fashioned carriage. but barebone was aware of juliette's presence in a dark corner of the roomy vehicle, and his eyes, seeking to penetrate the gloom, could just distinguish hers, which seemed to be turned in his direction.

many changes had been effected at the chateau, and a suite of rooms had been prepared for barebone in the detached building known as the italian house, which stands in the midst of the garden within the enceinte of the chateau walls.

“i have been able,” explained the marquis, frankly, “to obtain a small advance on the results of last autumn's vintage. my notary in the village found, indeed, that facilities were greater than he had anticipated. with this sum, i have been enabled to effect some necessary repairs to the buildings and the internal decorations. i had fallen behind the times, perhaps. but now that juliette is installed as chatelaine, many changes have been effected. you will see, my dear friend; you will see for yourself. yes, for the moment, i am no longer a pauper. as you yourself will have noticed, in your journey through the west, rural france is enjoying a sudden return of prosperity. it is unaccountable. no one can make me believe that it is to be ascribed to this scandalous government, under which we agonise. but there it is—and we must thank heaven for it.”

which was only the truth. for france was at this time entering upon a period of plenty. the air was full of rumours of new railways, new roads, and new commercial enterprise. banks were being opened in the provincial towns, and loans made on easy terms to agriculturists for the improvement of their land.

barebone found that there were indeed changes in the old chateau. the apartments above that which had once been the stabling, hitherto occupied by the marquis, had been added to and a slight attempt at redecoration had been made. there was no lack of rooms, and juliette now had her own suite, while the marquis lived, as hitherto, in three small apartments over the rooms occupied by marie and her husband.

an elderly relation—one of those old ladies habited in black, who are ready to efface themselves all day and occupy a garret all night in return for bed and board, had been added to the family. she contributed a silent and mysterious presence, some worldly wisdom, and a profound respect for her noble kinsman.

“she is quite harmless,” juliette explained, gaily, to barebone, on the first occasion when they were alone together. this did not present itself until loo had been quartered in the italian house for some days, with his own servant. although he took luncheon and dinner with the family in the old building near to the gate-house, and spent his evenings in juliette's drawing-room, the marquis or madame maugiron was always present, and as often as not, they played a game of chess together.

“she is quite harmless,” said juliette, tying, with a thread, the primroses she had been picking in that shady corner of the garden which lay at the other side of the italian house. the windows of barebone's apartment, by the way, looked down upon this garden, and he, having perceived her, had not wasted time in joining her in the morning sunshine.

“i wonder if i shall be as harmless when i am her age.”

and, indeed, danger lurked beneath her lashes as she glanced at him, asking this question with her lips and a hundred others with her eyes, with her gay air of youth and happiness—with her very attitude of coquetry, as she stood in the spring sunshine, with the scent of the primroses about her.

“i think that any one who approaches you will always do so at his peril, mademoiselle.”

“then why do it?” she asked, drawing back and busying herself with the flowers, which she laid against her breast, as if to judge the effect of their colour against the delicate white of her dress. “why run into danger? why come downstairs at all?”

“why breathe?” he retorted, with a laugh. “why eat, or drink, or sleep? why live? mon dieu! because there is no choice. and when i see you in the garden, there is no choice for me, mademoiselle. i must come down and run into danger, because i cannot help it any more that i can help—”

“but you need not stay,” she interrupted, cleverly. “a brave man may always retire from danger into safety.”

“but he may not always want to, mademoiselle.”

“ah!”

and, with a shrug of the shoulders, she inserted the primroses within a very small waistband and turned away.

“will you give me those primroses, mademoiselle?” asked loo, without moving; for, although she had turned to go, she had not gone.

she turned on her heel and looked at him, with demure surprise, and then bent her head to look at the flowers at her own waist.

“they are mine,” she answered, standing in that pretty attitude, her hair half concealing her face. “i picked them myself.”

“two reasons why i want them.”

“ah! but,” she said, with a suggestion of thoughtfulness, “one does not always get what one wants. you ask a great deal, monsieur.”

“there is no limit to what i would ask, mademoiselle.”

she laughed gaily.

“if—” she inquired, with raised eyebrows.

“if i dared.”

again she looked at him with that little air of surprise.

“but i thought you were so brave?” she said. “so reckless of danger? a brave man assuredly does not ask. he takes that which he would have.”

it happened that she had clasped her hands behind her back, leaving the primroses at her waist uncovered and half falling from the ribbon.

in a moment he had reached out his hand and taken them. she leapt back, as if she feared that he might take more, and ran back toward the house, placing a rough tangle of brier between herself and this robber. her laughing face looked at him through the brier.

“you have your primroses,” she said, “but i did not give them to you. you want too much, i think.”

“i want what that ribbon binds,” he answered. but she turned away and ran toward the house, without waiting to hear.