“Laubepin threw the deed in the flames, and Marguerite and her mother walked out of the room.

“‘What is the meaning of this?’ cried Bevallan.

“‘I will tell you,’ I answered.  ’A certain young lady was afraid that you were merely a fortune-hunter.  She wanted to be certain of it, and now she is so.’

“Thereupon I, too, left the room.

“But what is the matter with you, my dear boy?  You are as pale as a corpse.”

The fact was that the unexpected news aroused in me such a mixture of joyful and painful feelings that I fell back in a swoon.  When I recovered, dear old Laubepin was standing by my bed.

“Will you not confide in me, my boy?” he said rather sadly.  “Something, I can see, has happened which has made you miserable on the very day on which you should be full of joy.  What is it?”

Moved by his sympathy, I gave him this diary to read, and poured out my very soul to him.

“It is useless for me,” he said at last, “to conceal from you the fact that I sent you here with the design to marry you to Marguerite.  Everything at first went as well as I could wish, and Madame Laroque was delighted with the match.  You and Marguerite were made for each other, and you fell in love almost at first sight.  But this affair at the Castle of Elven is something I had not reckoned on.  To leap out of the window at the risk of breaking your neck was, my romantic young friend, a sufficient demonstration of your disinterestedness.  You need not have taken a solemn oath never to marry Marguerite until you were as rich as she is.  What can you do now?  You cannot forswear yourself, and you cannot suddenly make an immense fortune.”

“I must depart with you,” I said very sorrowfully.  “There is no other way.”

“No, Maxime,” he replied, “you are too unwell to move.  Remain here for one month longer; then, if you do not hear from me, return to Paris.”

It is now a week since he left me, and I have seen no one for the last seven days but the servant who waits upon me.  He tells me that Laroque has died, and that Marguerite and her mother, who have been tending him night and day, have worn themselves out, and are now laid up with some sort of fever.  Mlle. de Porhoet is also very ill, and not expected to live.  Since I am well enough to walk over to Mlle. de Porhoet.  I am told that she keeps asking to see me.

V.—­Two in a Garden

The little maid who came to open the door was weeping, and as I came in I was surprised to hear the voice of Laubepin.

“It is Maxime, Marguerite,” he said.

Had Marguerite also risen up from a bed of sickness to see Mlle. de Porhoet?  I sprang up the stairs, and entered the room.

“My poor, dear boy!” said Mlle. de Porhoet, in a strange, broken voice.

She was lying in bed.  Laubepin, a priest, and a doctor were standing on one side, and Marguerite and her mother were kneeling down in prayer on the other.  I saw at once that she was at the point of death, and knelt down beside Marguerite.  The poor dying woman smiled faintly, and groped for my hand and put it in Marguerite’s, and then fell back on the pillow.  She was dead.