“I will lie down for a couple of hours when Madame Bouisse is gone; but I must be up and out again at six.”

“Nay, that is in three hours.”

“I cannot help it.  It is my duty.”

“Then I have no more to say.  Would you drink some lemonade, if I made it for you?”

“I would drink poison, if you made it for me!”

“A decidedly misplaced enthusiasm!” laughed she, and left the room.

CHAPTER LII.

NEWS FROM ENGLAND.

It was a glorious morning—­first morning of the first week in the merry month of June—­as I took my customary way to Dr. Cheron’s house in the Faubourg St. Germain.  I had seen Dalrymple off by the night train the evening previous, and, refreshed by a good night’s rest, had started somewhat earlier than usual, for the purpose of taking a turn in the Luxembourg Gardens before beginning my day’s work.

There the blossoming parterres, the lavish perfume from geranium-bed and acacia-blossom, and the mad singing of the little birds up among the boughs, set me longing for a holiday.  I thought of Saxonholme, and the sweet English woodlands round about.  I thought how pleasant it would be to go home to dear Old England, if only for ten days, and surprise my father in his quiet study.  What if I asked Dr. Cheron to spare me for a fortnight?

Turning these things over in my mind, I left the gardens, and, arriving presently at the well-known Porte Cochere in the Rue de Mont Parnasse, rang the great bell, crossed the dull courtyard, and took my usual seat at my usual desk, not nearly so well disposed for work as usual.

“If you please, Monsieur,” said the solemn servant, making his appearance at the door, “Monsieur le Docteur requests your presence in his private room.”

I went.  Dr. Cheron was standing on the hearth-rug, with his back to the fire, and his arms folded over his breast.  An open letter, bordered broadly with black, lay upon his desk.  Although distant some two yards from the table, his eyes were fixed upon this paper.  When I came in he looked up, pointed to a seat, but himself remained standing and silent.

“Basil Arbuthnot,” he said, after a pause of some minutes, “I have this morning received a letter from England, by the early post.”

“From my father, sir?”

“No.  From a stranger,”

He looked straight at me as he said this, and hesitated.

“But it contains news,” he added, “that—­that much concerns you.”

There was a fixed gravity about the lines of his handsome mouth, and an unwonted embarrassment in his manner, that struck me with apprehension.

“Good news, I—­I hope, sir,” I faltered.

“Bad news, my young friend,” said he, compassionately.  “News that you must meet like a man, with fortitude—­with resignation.  Your father—­your excellent father—­my honored friend—­”