After that, nothing was left to me, as a man of honour, but to entrust her with my secret.  There had been several marriages between our families, and after listening with great interest to the story of my troubles, she became wonderfully kind in her manner to me.

“You must come and see me to-morrow, cousin,” she said, when we parted.  “My law-suit is going very badly and I should like you to go through all my papers, and see if you can discover any new documents in support of my claim.  Do not despair, my dear, over your own misfortunes.  I think I shall be able to help you.”

II.—­Love and Jealousy

I am afraid I lack the industry necessary for keeping a diary.  It is now two months since I wrote the last entry.  If I had made every night a brief note of the events of the day, I should now have a better view of my position.  Has Mlle. de Porhoet betrayed my secret?  There has certainly been a curious change in my relations with the Laroques.  I fancy it began on the day when Marguerite and I met at last on an equal footing at Mlle. de Porhoet’s house.  The document which I had just then found may not be as important as we thought, but our common joy in what we considered was a discovery of tremendous value brought us closer together.

But I cannot understand Marguerite.  Sometimes she still goes out of her way to be insulting towards me, and sometimes she treats me with a sweet frankness which has something sisterly in it.  One day, for instance, she came to my window and asked me if I would go for a walk with her.  “Bring your sketch-book, Monsieur Odiot,” she called out gaily, “and I will take you to Merlin’s Tomb in the Enchanted Valley.”

As a matter of fact, the woods around the castle of the Laroques were the remains of the famous forest of Broceliande, and I had always been promising myself a long ramble through this region of romance, but I had never found time to explore it.  I was now glad I had waited, for Marguerite was a charming guide.  Never had I seen her so light-hearted.  When we reached a great block of stone in the depth of the wood, under which the wizard Merlin is said to be imprisoned by Vivien, Marguerite made herself a garland of oak-leaves, and standing like a lovely priestess clad all in white against the Druidic monument, she asked me to make a sketch of her.  With what joy did I paint the poetic vision before me!  I think she was pleased with the drawing, but on our way back to the castle a foolish word of mine brought our friendship to an end.  We came to a picturesque little lake, at the end of which was a waterfall, overgrown with brambles.  In order to show what a good swimmer her dog was, Marguerite threw something in the current and told him to fetch it, but he got carried over the waterfall and caught in the whirlpool below.

“Come away!  He is drowning—­come away!  I can’t bear to see it!” cried Marguerite, seizing me by the arm.  “No, do not attempt to save him.  The pool is very dangerous.”