“we do squint each through his loophole,

and then dream broad heaven

is but the patch we see.”

it was almost dark when the abbé's carriage reached the valley, and the driver paused to light the two stable-lanterns tied with string to the dilapidated lamp-brackets. the abbé was impatient, and fidgeted in his seat. he was at heart an autocrat, and hated to be defied even by one over whom he could not pretend to have control. he snapped his finger and thumb as he thought of denise.

“she puzzles me,” he muttered. “what does she want? bon dieu, what does she want?”

then he spoke angrily to the driver, whose movements were slow and clumsy.

“at all events my task is easier here,” he consoled himself by saying as the carriage approached the chateau, “now that i am rid of these women.”

at last they reached the foot of the slope leading up to the half-ruined house, which loomed against the evening sky immediately above them; and the driver pulled up his restive horses with an air significant of arrival.

“right up to the chateau,” cried the abbé from beneath the hood.

but the man made no movement, and sat on the box muttering to himself.

“what!” cried the abbé, who had caught some words. “jean has the evil eye! what of jean's evil eye? here, i will give you my rosary to put round your coward's neck. no! then down you get, my friend. you can wait here till we come back.”

as he spoke he leapt out, and, climbing into the box, pushed the driver unceremoniously from his seat, snatching the reins and whip from his hands.

“he!” he cried. “allons, my little ones!”

and with whip and voice he urged the horses up the slope at a canter, while the carriage swayed across from one great tree to another. they reached the summit in safety, and the priest pulled the horses up at the great door—the first carriage to disturb the quiet of that spot for nearly a generation. he twisted the reins round the whip-socket, and clambering down rang the great bell. it answered to his imperious summons by the hollow clang that betrays an empty house. no one came. he stood without, drumming with his fist on the doorpost. then he turned to listen. some one was approaching from the darkness of the trees. but it was only the driver following sullenly on foot.

“here!” said the priest, recognizing him. “go to your horses!”

as he spoke he was already untying one of the stable-lanterns that swung at the lamp-bracket. his eyes gleamed beneath the brim of his broad hat. he was quick and anxious.

“wait here till i come back,” he said; and, keeping close to the wall, he disappeared among the low bushes.

there was another way in by a door half hidden among the ivy, which jean used for his mysterious comings and goings, and of which the abbé had a key. he had brought it with him to-night by a lucky chance. he had to push aside the ivy which hung from the walls in great ropes, and only found the keyhole after a hurried search. but the lock was in good order. jean, it appeared, was a careful man.

susini hurried through a long passage to the little round room where the count de vasselot had lived so long. he stopped with his nose in the air, and sniffed aloud. the atmosphere was heavy with the smell of stale tobacco, and yet there could be detected the sweeter odour of smoke scarcely cold. the room must have been inhabited only a few hours ago. the abbé opened the window, and the smell of carnations swept in like the breath of another world. he returned to the room, and, opening his lantern, lighted a candle that stood on the mantelpiece. he looked round. sundry small articles in daily use—the count's pipe, his old brass tobacco-box: a few such things that a man lives with, and puts in his pocket when he goes away—were missing.

“buon diou! buon diou! buon diou—gone!” muttered the priest, lapsing into his native dialect. he looked around him with keen eyes—at the blackened walls, at the carpet worn into holes. “that jean must have known something that i do not know. all the same, i shall look through the house.”

he blew out the candle, and taking the lantern quitted the room. he searched the whole house—passing from empty room to empty room. the reception-rooms were huge and sparingly furnished with those thin-legged chairs and ancient card-tables which recall the days of letitia ramolino and that easy-going charles buonaparte, who brought into the world the greatest captain that armies have ever seen. the bedrooms were small: all alike smelt of mouldering age. in one room the abbé stopped and raised his inquiring nose; the room had been inhabited by a woman—years and years ago.

he searched the house from top to bottom, and there was no one in it. the abbé had failed in the two missions confided to him by lory, and he was one to whom failure was peculiarly bitter. with respect to the two women, he had perhaps scarcely expected to succeed, for he had lived fifty years in the world, and his calling had brought him into daily contact with that salutary chastening of the spirit which must assuredly be the lot of a man who seeks to enforce his will upon women. but his failure to find the old count de vasselot was a more serious matter.

he returned slowly to the carriage, and told the driver to return to olmeta.

“i have changed my plans,” he said, still mindful of the secret he had received with other pastoral charges from his predecessor. “jean is not in the chateau, so i shall not go to st. florent to-night.”

he leant forward, and looked up at the old castle outlined against the sky. a breeze was springing up with the suddenness of all atmospheric changes in these latitudes, and the old trees creaked and groaned, while the leaves had already that rustling brittleness of sound that betokens the approach of autumn.

as they crossed the broad valley the wind increased, sweeping up the course of the aliso in wild gusts. it was blowing a gale before the horses fell to a quick walk up the hill; and mademoiselle brun's small figure, planted in the middle of the road, was the first indication that the driver had of the presence of the two women, though the widow andrei, who accompanied them and carried their travelling-bags, had already called out more than once.

“the abbé susini?” cried mademoiselle brun, in curt interrogation.

in reply, the driver pointed to the inside of the carriage with the handle of his whip.

“you are alone?” said mademoiselle, in surprise.

the light of the lantern shone brightly on her, and on the dimmer form of denise, silent and angry in the background; for denise had allowed her inclination to triumph over her pride, which conquest usually leaves a sore heart behind it.

“but, yes!” answered the abbé; alighting quickly enough.

he guessed instantly that denise had changed her mind, and was indiscreet enough to put his thoughts into words.

“so mademoiselle has thought better of it?” he said; and got no answer for his pains.

both mademoiselle brun and denise were looking curiously at the interior of the carriage from which the priest emerged, leaving it, as they noted, empty.

“there is yet time to go to st. florent?” inquired the elder woman.

the priest grabbed at his hat as a squall swept up the road, whirling the dust high above their heads.

“whether we shall get on board is another matter,” he muttered by way of answer. “come, get into the carriage; we have no time to lose. it will be a bad night at sea.”

“then, for my sins i shall be sea-sick,” said mademoiselle brun, imperturbably.

she took her bag from the hand of the widow andrei, and would have it nowhere but on her lap, where she held it during the rapid drive, sitting bolt upright, staring straight in front of her into the face of the abbé.

no one spoke, for each had thoughts sufficient to occupy the moment. susini perhaps had the narrowest vein of reflection upon which to draw, and therefore fidgeted in his seat and muttered to himself, for his mental range was limited to olmeta and the chateau de vasselot. mademoiselle brun was thinking of france—of her great past and her dim, uncertain future. while denise sat stiller and more silent than either, for her thoughts were at once as wide as the whole world, and as narrow as the human heart.

at a turn in the road she looked up, and saw the sharp outline of the casa perucca, black and sombre against a sky now lighted by a rising moon, necked and broken by heavy clouds, with deep lurking shadows and mountains of snowy whiteness. in the casa perucca she had learnt what life means, and no man or woman ever forgets the place where that lesson has been acquired.

“i shall come back,” she whispered, looking up at the great rock with its giant pines and the two square chimneys half hidden in the foliage.

and the abbé susini, seeing a movement of her lips, glanced curiously at her. he was still wondering what she wanted. “mon dieu,” he was reflecting a second time, “what does she want?”

he stopped the carriage outside the town of st. florent at the end of the long causeway built across the marsh, where the wind swept now from the open bay with a salt flavour to it. he alighted, and took denise's bag, rightly concluding that mademoiselle brun would prefer to carry her own.

“follow me,” he said, taking a delight in being as curt as mademoiselle brun herself, and in denying them the explanations they were too proud to demand.

they walked abreast through the narrow street dimly lighted by a single lamp swinging on a gibbet at the corner, turned sharp to the left, and found themselves suddenly at the water's edge. a few boats bumped lazily at some steps where the water lapped. it was blowing hard out in the bay, but this corner was protected by a half-ruined house built on a projecting rock.

the priest looked round.

“hé! là-bas!” he called out, in a guarded voice. but he received no answer.

“wait here,” he said to the two women. “i will fetch him from the café.” and he disappeared.

denise and mademoiselle stood in silence listening to the lapping of the water and the slow, muffled bumping of the boats until the abbé returned, followed by a man who slouched along on bare feet.

“yes,” he was saying, “the yacht was there at sunset. i saw her myself lying just outside the point. but it is folly to try and reach her to-night; wait till the morning, monsieur l'abbé.”

“and find her gone,” answered the priest. “no, no; we embark to-night, my friend. if these ladies are willing, surely a st. florent man will not hold back?”

“but you have not told these ladies of the danger. the wind is blowing right into the bay; we cannot tack out against it. it will take me two hours to row out single-handed with some one baling out the whole time.”

“but i will pull an oar with you,” answered susini. “come, show us which is your boat. mademoiselle brun will bale out, and the young lady will steer. we shall be quite a family party.”

there was no denying a man who took matters into his own hands so energetically.

“you can pull an oar?” inquired the boatman, doubtfully.

“i was born at bonifacio, my friend. come, i will take the bow oar if you will find me an oilskin coat. it will not be too dry up in the bows to-night.”

and, like most masterful people—right or wrong—the abbé had his way, even to the humble office assigned to mademoiselle brun.

“you will need to remove your glove and bare your arm,” explained the boatman, handing her an old tin mug. “but you will not find the water cold. it is always warmer at night. thus the good god remembers poor fishermen. the seas will come over the bows when we round this corner; they will rise up and hit the abbé in the back, which is his affair; then they will wash aft into this well, and from that you must bale it out all the time. when the seas come in, you need not be alarmed, nor will it be necessary to cry out.”

“such instructions, my friend,” said the priest, scrambling into his oilskin coat, “are unnecessary to mademoiselle, who is a woman of discernment.”

“but i try not to be,” snapped mademoiselle brun. she knew which women are most popular with men.

“as for you, mademoiselle,” said the boatman to denise, “keep the boat pointed at the waves, and as each one comes to you, cut it as you would cut a cream cheese. she will jerk and pull at you, but you must not be afraid of her; and remember that the highest wave may be cut.”

“that young lady is not afraid of much,” muttered the abbé, settling to his oar.

they pulled slowly out to the end of the rocky promontory, upon which a ruined house still stands, and shot suddenly out into a howling wind. the first wave climbed leisurely over the weather-bow, and slopped aft to the ladies' feet; the second rose up, and smote the abbé in the back.

“cut them, mademoiselle; cut them!” shouted the boatman.

and at intervals during that wild journey he repeated the words, unceremoniously spitting the salt water from his lips. the abbé, bending his back to the work and the waves, gave a short laugh from time to time, that had a ring in it to make mademoiselle brun suddenly like the man—the fighting ring of exaltation which adapts itself to any voice and any tongue. for nearly an hour they rowed in silence, while mademoiselle baled the water out, and denise steered with steady eyes piercing the darkness.

“we are quite close to it,” she said at length; for she had long been steering towards a light that flickered feebly across the broken water.

in a few moments they were alongside, and, amidst confused shouting of orders, the two ladies were half lifted, half dragged on board. the abbé followed them.

“a word with you,” he said, taking mademoiselle brun unceremoniously by the arm, and leading her apart. “you will be met by friends on your arrival at st. raphael to-morrow. and when you are free to do so, will you do me a favour?”

“yes.”

“find lory de vasselot, wherever he may be.”

“yes,” answered mademoiselle brun.

“and tell him that i went to the chateau de vasselot and found it empty.”

mademoiselle reflected for some moments.

“yes; i will do that,” she said at length.

“thank you.”

the abbé stared hard at her beneath his dripping hat for a moment, and then, turning abruptly, moved towards the gangway, where his boat lay in comparatively smooth water at the lee-side of the yacht. denise was speaking to a man who seemed to be the captain.

mademoiselle brun followed the abbé.

“by the way—” she said.

susini stopped, and looked into her face, dimly lighted by the moon, which peeped at times through riven clouds.

“whom should you have found in the chateau?” she asked.

“ah! that i will not tell you.”

mademoiselle brun gave a short laugh.

“then i shall find out. trust a woman to find out a secret.”

the abbé was already over the bulwark, so that only his dark face appeared above, with the water running off it. his eyes gleamed in the moonlight.

“and a priest to keep one,” he answered. and he leapt down into the boat.