a crown of beautiful bluebell flowers about the carved stone.  At this moment the blue buds were unfolding in the fair saint’s eyes.  Mlle. Armande loved the charming couple as if they stood apart from real life; she saw nothing wrong in a married woman’s love for Victurnien; any other woman she would have judged harshly; but in this case, not to have loved her nephew would have been the unpardonable sin.  Aunts, mothers, and sisters have a code of their own for nephews and sons and brothers.

Mlle. Armande was in Venice; she saw the lines of fairy palaces that stand on either side of the Grand Canal; she was sitting in Victurnien’s gondola; he was telling her what happiness it had been to feel that the Duchess’ beautiful hand lay in his own, to know that she loved him as they floated together on the breast of the amorous Queen of Italian seas.  But even in that moment of bliss, such as angels know, some one appeared in the garden walk.  It was Chesnel!  Alas! the sound of his tread on the gravel might have been the sound of the sands running from Death’s hour-glass to be trodden under his unshod feet.  The sound, the sight of a dreadful hopelessness in Chesnel’s face, gave her that painful shock which follows a sudden recall of the senses when the soul has sent them forth into the world of dreams.

“What is it?” she cried, as if some stab had pierced to her heart.

“All is lost!” said Chesnel.  “M. le Comte will bring dishonor upon the house if we do not set it in order.”  He held out the bills, and described the agony of the last few days in a few simple but vigorous and touching words.

“He is deceiving us!  The miserable boy!” cried Mlle. Armande, her heart swelling as the blood surged back to it in heavy throbs.

“Let us both say mea culpa, mademoiselle,” the old lawyer said stoutly; “we have always allowed him to have his own way; he needed stern guidance; he could not have it from you with your inexperience of life; nor from me, for he would not listen to me.  He has had no mother.”

“Fate sometimes deals terribly with a noble house in decay,” said Mlle. Armande, with tears in her eyes.

The Marquis came up as she spoke.  He had been walking up and down the garden while he read the letter sent by his son after his return.  Victurnien gave his itinerary from an aristocrat’s point of view; telling how he had been welcomed by the greatest Italian families of Genoa, Turin, Milan, Florence, Venice, Rome, and Naples.  This flattering reception he owed to his name, he said, and partly, perhaps, to the Duchess as well.  In short, he had made his appearance magnificently, and as befitted a d’Esgrignon.

“Have you been at your old tricks, Chesnel?” asked the Marquis.

Mlle. Armande made Chesnel an eager sign, dreadful to see.  They understood each other.  The poor father, the flower of feudal honor, must die with all his illusions.  A compact of silence and devotion was ratified between the two noble hearts by a simple inclination of the head.