“We will follow you, mignonne,” she said in French.

“Must you come?” said Antoinette, appealingly.  “He may not appear if he sees any one.”

“We shall have to risk that,” said the Vicomtesse, dryly, with a glance at me.  “You shall not go alone, but we will wait a few moments at the hedge.”

We took the well-remembered way through the golden green light under the trees, Antoinette leading, and the sight of the garden brought back to me poignantly the scene in the moonlight with Mrs. Temple.  There was no sound save the languid morning notes of the birds and the humming of the bees among the flowers as Antoinette went tremblingly down the path and paused, listening, under the branches of that oak where I had first beheld her.  Then, with a little cry, we saw her run forward—­into the arms of Auguste de St. Gre.  It was a pitiful thing to look upon.

Antoinette had led her brother to the seat under the oak.  How long we waited I know not, but at length we heard their voices raised, and without more ado Madame la Vicomtesse, beckoning me, passed quickly through the gap in the hedge and went towards them.  I followed with Andre.  Auguste rose with an oath, and then stood facing his cousin like a man struck dumb, his hands dropped.  He was a sorry sight indeed, unshaven, unkempt, dark circles under his eyes, clothes torn.

“Helene!  You here—­in America!” he cried in French, staring at her.

“Yes, Auguste,” she replied quite simply, “I am here.”  He would have come towards her, but there was a note in her voice which arrested him.

“And Monsieur le Vicomte—­Henri?” he said.  I found myself listening tensely for the answer.

“Henri is in Austria, fighting for his King, I hope,” said Madame la Vicomtesse.

“So Madame la Vicomtesse is a refugee,” he said with a bow and a smile that made me very angry.

“And Monsieur de St. Gre!” I asked.

At the sound of my voice he started and gave back, for he had not perceived me.  He recovered his balance, such as it was, instantly.

“Monsieur seems to take an extraordinary interest in my affairs,” he said jauntily.

“Only when they are to the detriment of other persons who are my friends,” I said.

“Monsieur has intruded in a family matter,” said Auguste, grandly, still in French.

“By invitation of those most concerned, Monsieur,” I answered, for I could have throttled him.

Auguste had developed.  He had learned well that effrontery is often the best weapon of an adventurer.  He turned from me disdainfully, petulantly, and addressed the Vicomtesse once more.

“I wish to be alone with Antoinette,” he said.

“No doubt,” said the Vicomtesse.

“I demand it,” said Auguste.

“The demand is not granted,” said the Vicomtesse; “that is why we have come.  Your sister has already made enough sacrifices for you.  I know you, Monsieur Auguste de St. Gre,” she continued with quiet contempt.  “It is not for love of Antoinette that you have sought this meeting.  It is because,” she said, riding down a torrent of words which began to escape from him, “it is because you are in a predicament, as usual, and you need money.”