“And you, my dear Mr. Aycon, are going to stay a few days in Avranches.”

“Not an hour!” would have expressed the resolve of my intellect.  But we are not all intellect; and what I actually said was: 

“What for?”

“In case,” said the duchess, “I want you, Mr. Aycon.”

“I will stay,” said I, nodding, “just a few days at Avranches.”

We were within half a mile of that town.  The convent gleamed white in the moonlight about three hundred yards to the left.  The duchess took her little bag, jumped lightly down, kissed her hand to me, and walked off.

Jean had made no comment at all—­the duchess’ household was hard to surprise.  I could make none.  And we drove in silence into Avranches.

When there before with Gustave, I had put up at a small inn at the foot of the hill.  Now I drove up to the summit and stopped before the principal hotel.  A waiter ran out, cast a curious glance at my conveyance, and lifted my luggage down.

“Let me know if you get into any trouble for being late,” said I to Jean, giving him another five francs.

He nodded and drove off, still chewing the stump of his cheroot.

“Can I have a room?” I asked, turning to the waiter.

“Certainly, sir,” said he, catching up my bag in his hand.

“I am just come,” said I, “from Mont St. Michel.”

A curious expression spread over the waiter’s face.  I fancy he knew old Jean and the cart by sight; but he spread out his hands and smiled.

“Monsieur,” said he with the incomparable courtesy of the French nation, “has come from wherever monsieur pleases.”

“That,” said I, giving him a trifle, “is an excellent understanding.”

Then I walked into the salle-à-manger, and almost into the arms of an extraordinarily handsome girl who was standing just inside the door.

“This is really an eventful day,” I thought to myself.

CHAPTER VI.

A Hint of Something Serious.

Occurrences such as this induce in a man of imagination a sense of sudden shy intimacy.  The physical encounter seems to typify and foreshadow some intermingling of destiny.  This occurs with peculiar force when the lady is as beautiful as was the girl I saw before me.

“I beg your pardon, madame,” said I, with a whirl of my hat.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the lady, with an inclination of her head.

“One is so careless in entering rooms hurriedly,” I observed.

“Oh, but it is stupid to stand just by the door!” insisted the lady.

Conscious that she was scanning my appearance, I could but return the compliment.  She was very tall, almost as tall as I was myself; you would choose to call her stately, rather than slender.  She was very fair, with large lazy blue eyes and a lazy smile to match.  In all respects she was the greatest contrast to the Duchess of Saint-Maclou.