mystery to her as she was to him.  There had been a sea-change; he was no longer a fop; there was grey in his hair; he was a man.  In her room there was light from the sun.  Carelessly she glanced at the book.  It was grey with dust, which she blew away.  Evidently it had lain some time in the corridor.  She flapped the covers.  The title, dim and worn, smiled drolly up.  She blushed, and abruptly laid the offending volume on the table.  The merry Vicar of Meudon was not wholly acceptable to her woman’s mind.  To whom did it belong, this foundling book?  With a grimace which would have caused Rabelais to smile, she turned back the cover.

“The Chevalier’s!” To what did he pretend?  “I shall send it back to his room.  Gabrielle, Gabrielle, thou wert a fool, and a fool’s folly has brought you to Quebec!  A nun?  I should die!  Why did I come?  In mercy’s name, why? . . .  A letter?” An oblong envelope, lying on the floor, attracted her attention.  She took it up with a deal more curiosity than she had the book.  “To Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny,” she read, “to be delivered into his hands at my death.”  She studied the scrawl.  It was not the Chevalier’s; and yet, how strangely familiar to her eyes!  Should she send it directly to the marquis or to the son?  She debated for several moments.  Then she touched the bell and summoned the woman whom the governor had kindly placed at her service.

“Take this book and letter to Monsieur du Cevennes, and if he is not there, leave it in his room.”  Her lack of curiosity saved her.  Some women would have opened the letter, read, and been destroyed.  But madame’s guiding star was undimmed.

It was just before the evening mess that the Chevalier, on entering his room, saw the volume and the letter.  He gave his attention immediately to the letter; and, became strangely fascinated.  It was addressed to his father!  “To Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny, to be delivered into his hands at my death.”  Whose death?  The Chevalier rested the letter on the palm of his hand.  How came it here?  He inspected the envelope.  It was unsealed.  He balanced it, first on one hand, then, on the other.  Was it the wine that caused the shudder?  Whose death? kept ringing through his brain.  How the gods must have smiled as they played with the fate of this man!  Terror and tragedy, and only an opaque sheet of paper between!  Whose death?  The envelope was old, the ink was faded.  What was written within?  Did the contents in any way concern him?  It was within a finger’s reach.  But he hesitated, as a blind man hesitates when the guiding hand is suddenly withdrawn.  “To Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny, to be delivered into his hands at my death.”

“It is his, not mine; let him read it.  Breton, lad, here’s your Rabelais, come back I know not how.  But here is a letter which you will deliver to Jehan, who in turn will see that it reaches its owner.”