“No, he buys it ready made,” replied the pacha; “and I must say I wish you had done the same:  for, with all this love making, you get on but slowly with your story.  Proceed.”

* * * * *

I remained another week, when the bishop, who had not yet taken his departure, one morning drove over to Marseilles, and returned to dinner.  “I was sent for,” observed he, as we sat down to table, “to consult as to the propriety of requesting from the Pope the canonisation of the Soeur Eustasie, of whom you have heard so much, and whose disappearance has been attributed to miraculous agency:  but during our consultation, a piece of information was sent in, which has very much changed the opinion of parties as to her reputed sanctity.  It appears that near the spot where the vessel was wrecked they have discovered the body of a woman dressed in man’s clothes; and it is now supposed that some miscreant has personified her at the Convent, and has subsequently escaped.  The officers of justice are making the strictest search, and if the individual is found, he will be sent to Rome to be disposed of by the Inquisition.”

As your highness may imagine, this was not very agreeable news; I almost started from my chair when I heard it; but I had sufficient mastery over myself to conceal my feelings, although every morsel that I put into my mouth nearly choked me.

But before dinner was over the plot thickened; a letter was brought to the Marquis from my adopted father the Comte de Rouille stating that such contradictory reports had been received, that he could not ascertain the truth.  From one he heard that his eldest son was alive, and at the chateau; from others that he had been murdered:  others congratulated him in their letters upon the escape of one of his sons.  He requested the Marquis to inform him of the real state of affairs, and to let him know by the bearer whether his eldest son was with him, or whether he had met with the unfortunate death that was reported; and as his youngest son was at home, and had been there for some months, he could not but imagine, as both of them were mentioned in the reports, that there might be some imposture in the business.

I perceived by the change of countenance in the Marquis that affairs were not going well, and was to a certain degree prepared, when he gravely handed the letter to the bishop, who, having read it, passed it over to me, saying, with a stern look, “This concerns you, sir.”  I read it with a composed countenance, and, returning it to the Marquis, I observed with a sigh, “There is no kindness in such deception, the blow will only fall heavier upon the old man when it does come.  You are aware, sir, I mentioned it to you (or rather, I believe, it was to Mademoiselle Cerise), that my father is blind, and has been so for the last two years.  They have been afraid to tell him the truth, and have made him believe that Victor is there.  You must know, sir, that it was