It was on that night that Grandemont first perceived a new and singular expression in Adele’s eyes whenever she looked at him.  And through the years following that expression was always there.  He could not read it, for it was born of a thought she would never otherwise reveal.

Perhaps, if he had known that Adele had stood at the gate on that unlucky night, where she had followed, lingering, to await the return of her brother and lover, wondering why they had chosen so tempestuous an hour and so black a spot to hold converse—­if he had known that a sudden flash of lightning had revealed to her sight that short, sharp struggle as Victor was sinking under his hands, he might have explained everything, and she—­

I know what she would have done.  But one thing is clear—­there was something besides her brother’s disappearance between Grandemont’s pleadings for her hand and Adele’s “yes.”  Ten years had passed, and what she had seen during the space of that lightning flash remained an indelible picture.  She had loved her brother, but was she holding out for the solution of that mystery or for the “Truth”?  Women have been known to reverence it, even as an abstract principle.  It is said there have been a few who, in the matter of their affections, have considered a life to be a small thing as compared with a lie.  That I do not know.  But, I wonder, had Grandemont cast himself at her feet crying that his hand had sent Victor to the bottom of that inscrutable river, and that he could no longer sully his love with a lie, I wonder if—­I wonder what she would have done!

But, Grandemont Charles, Arcadian little gentleman, never guessed the meaning of that look in Adele’s eyes; and from this last bootless payment of his devoirs he rode away as rich as ever in honour and love, but poor in hope.

That was in September.  It was during the first winter month that Grandemont conceived his idea of the renaissance.  Since Adele would never be his, and wealth without her were useless trumpery, why need he add to that hoard of slowly harvested dollars?  Why should he even retain that hoard?

Hundreds were the cigarettes he consumed over his claret, sitting at the little polished tables in the Royal street cafes while thinking over his plan.  By and by he had it perfect.  It would cost, beyond doubt, all the money he had, but—­le jeu vaut la chandelle—­for some hours he would be once more a Charles of Charleroi.  Once again should the nineteenth of January, that most significant day in the fortunes of the house of Charles, be fittingly observed.  On that date the French king had seated a Charles by his side at table; on that date Armand Charles, Marquis de Brasse, landed, like a brilliant meteor, in New Orleans; it was the date of his mother’s wedding; of Grandemont’s birth.  Since Grandemont could remember until the breaking up of the family that anniversary had been the synonym for feasting, hospitality, and proud commemoration.