he might have been an actor.  One day, as I was saying, an old Frenchman of a humble class presented himself to our servants, several of them, understood French; and through Medlicott, I learnt that he was in some way connected with the De Crequys; not with their Paris-life; but I fancy he had been intendant of their estates in the country; estates which were more useful as hunting-grounds than as adding to their income.  However, there was the old man and with him, wrapped round his person, he had brought the long parchment rolls, and deeds relating to their property.  These he would deliver up to none but Monsieur de Crequy, the rightful owner; and Clement was out with Monkshaven, so the old man waited; and when Clement came in, I told him of the steward’s arrival, and how he had been cared for by my people.  Clement went directly to see him.  He was a long time away, and I was waiting for him to drive out with me, for some purpose or another, I scarce know what, but I remember I was tired of waiting, and was just in the act of ringing the bell to desire that he might be reminded of his engagement with me, when he came in, his face as white as the powder in his hair, his beautiful eyes dilated with horror.  I saw that he had heard something that touched him even more closely than the usual tales which every fresh emigrant brought.

“‘What is it, Clement?’ I asked.

“He clasped his hands, and looked as though he tried to speak, but could not bring out the words.

“‘They have guillotined my uncle!’ said he at last.  Now, I knew that there was a Count de Crequy; but I had always understood that the elder branch held very little communication with him; in fact, that he was a vaurien of some kind, and rather a disgrace than otherwise to the family.  So, perhaps, I was hard-hearted but I was a little surprised at this excess of emotion, till I saw that peculiar look in his eyes that many people have when there is more terror in their hearts than they dare put into words.  He wanted me to understand something without his saying it; but how could I?  I had never heard of a Mademoiselle de Crequy.

“‘Virginie!’ at last he uttered.  In an instant I understood it all, and remembered that, if Urian had lived, he too might have been in love.

“‘Your uncle’s daughter?’ I inquired.

“‘My cousin,’ he replied.

“I did not say, ‘your betrothed,’ but I had no doubt of it.  I was mistaken, however.

“‘O madame!’ he continued, ’her mother died long ago—­her father now—­and she is in daily fear,—­alone, deserted—­’

“‘Is she in the Abbaye?’ asked I.

“’No! she is in hiding with the widow of her father’s old concierge.  Any day they may search the house for aristocrats.  They are seeking them everywhere.  Then, not her life alone, but that of the old woman, her hostess, is sacrificed.  The old woman knows this, and trembles with fear.  Even if she is brave enough to be faithful, her fears would betray her, should the house be searched.  Yet, there is no one to help Virginie to escape.  She is alone in Paris.’