Not far from the Chateau d’Urtis, the old manor-house of Langevy raised its pointed turrets above the surrounding woods.  There, in complete isolation from the world, lived Monsieur de Langevy, his old mother, and his young son.  M. de Langevy had struggled against the storms and misfortunes of human life; he now reposed in the bosom of solitude, with many a regret over his wife and his youth—­his valiant sword and his adventures.  His son, Hector Henri de Langevy, had studied under the Jesuits at Lyons till he was eighteen.  Accustomed to the indulgent tenderness of his grandmother, he had returned, about two years before, determined to live in his quiet home without troubling himself about the military glories that had inspired his father.  M. de Langevy, though he disapproved of the youth’s choice, did not interfere with it, except that he insisted on his sometimes following the chase, as the next best occupation to actual war.  The chase had few charms for Hector.  It perhaps might have had more, if he had not been forced to arm himself with an enormous fowling-piece that had belonged to one of his ancestors, the very sight of which alarmed him a mighty deal more than the game.  He was so prodigious a sportsman, that, after six months’ practice, he was startled as much as ever by the whirr of a partridge.  But don’t imagine, on this account, that Hector’s time was utterly wasted.  He mused and dreamed, and fancied it would be so pleasant to be in love; for he was at that golden age—­the only golden age the world has ever seen—­when the heart passes from vision to vision (as the bee from flower to flower)—­and wanders, in its dreams of hope, from earth to heaven, from sunshine to shade—­from warbling groves to sighing maidens.  But alas! the heart of Hector searched in vain for sighing maidens in the woods of Langevy.  In the chateau, there was no one but an old housekeeper, who had probably not sighed for thirty years, and a chubby scullion-maid—­all unworthy of a soul that dreamed romances on the banks of the Lignon.  He counted greatly on a cousin from Paris, who had promised them a visit in the spring.  In the meantime, he paced up and down with a gun on his shoulder, pretending to be a sportsman—­happy in his hopes, happy in the clear sunshine, happy because he knew no better—­as happens to a great many other people in the gay days of their youth, in this most unjustly condemned and vilipended world.  And now you will probably guess what occurred one day he was walking in his usual dreamy state of abstraction, and as nearly as possible tumbled head foremost into the Lignon.  By dint of marching straight on, without minding either hedge or ditch, he found himself, when he awakened from his reverie, with his right foot raised, in the very act of stepping off the bank into the water.  He stood stock-still, in that somewhat unpicturesque attitude—­his mouth wide open, his eyes strained, and his cheek glowing with all the colours of the rainbow.  He had caught a glimpse