“Prescribe some of your nice tonics for me, doctor,” said Josephine, coaxingly.

“No!  I can’t do that; you are in the hands of another practitioner.”

“What does that matter?  You were at Paris.”

“It is not the etiquette in our profession to interfere with another man’s patients.”

“Oh, dear!  I am so sorry,” began Josephine.

“I see nothing here that my good friend Mivart is not competent to deal with,” said the doctor, coldly.

Then followed some general conversation, at the end of which the doctor once more laid his commands on them to stay another fortnight where they were, and bade them good-by.

He was no sooner gone than Rose went to the door of the kitchen, and called out, “Madame Jouvenel!  Madame Jouvenel! you may come into the garden again.”

The doctor drove away; but, instead of going straight to Beaurepaire, he ordered the driver to return to the town.  He then walked to Mivart’s house.

In about a quarter of an hour he came out of it, looking singularly grave, sad, and stern.

CHAPTER XVII.

Edouard Riviere contrived one Saturday to work off all arrears of business, and start for Beaurepaire.  He had received a very kind letter from Rose, and his longing to see her overpowered him.  On the road his eyes often glittered, and his cheek flushed with expectation.  At last he got there.  His heart beat:  for four months he had not seen her.  He ran up into the drawing-room, and there found the baroness alone; she welcomed him cordially, but soon let him know Rose and her sister were at Frejus.  His heart sank.  Frejus was a long way off.  But this was not all.  Rose’s last letter was dated from Beaurepaire, yet it must have been written at Frejus.  He went to Jacintha, and demanded an explanation of this.  The ready Jacintha said it looked as if she meant to be home directly; and added, with cool cunning, “That is a hint for me to get their rooms ready.”

“This letter must have come here enclosed in another,” said Edouard, sternly.

“Like enough,” replied Jacintha, with an appearance of sovereign indifference.

Edouard looked at her, and said, grimly, “I will go to Frejus.”

“So I would,” said Jacintha, faltering a little, but not perceptibly; “you might meet them on the road, if so be they come the same road; there are two roads, you know.”

Edouard hesitated; but he ended by sending Dard to the town on his own horse, with orders to leave him at the inn, and borrow a fresh horse.  “I shall just have time,” said he.  He rode to Frejus, and inquired at the inns and post-office for Mademoiselle de Beaurepaire.  They did not know her; then he inquired for Madame Raynal.  No such name known.  He rode by the seaside upon the chance of their seeing him.  He paraded on horseback throughout the place, in hopes every moment that a window would open, and a fair face shine at it, and call him.  At last his time was up, and he was obliged to ride back, sick at heart, to Beaurepaire.  He told the baroness, with some natural irritation, what had happened.  She was as much surprised as he was.