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'I shall start for Paris to-morrow morning. I must warn the editor of the Glaneuse first. If the Government can but find, can but arrest her, we shall have stopped a war, and Lucien will be saved for the one cause worthy of him.'

The words that Blum had spoken were true; for once his oracle agreed with him, except as to the cause for which Lucien was to be preserved. To that, as to all causes, she was profoundly indifferent; but she feared and hated the thought of war as of some huge, incalculable extravagance which might cost her dear. That Lucien should be the Flying Mercury between Legitimists with sounding titles seemed to her a chivalrous arrangement; but she had no desire that chivalry should lead him to fight. So long as the duchess of Berry wrote, plotted, schemed for her son, Jeanne was on her side: she would have done the same herself in like circumstances; but the spectacle of any woman who could stir up men to wound and kill each other, for any cause whatever, raised all her instincts of revolt. Men were enough inclined to violence by nature, she thought. If she could not make peace between them, the woman's part must be to war with words. Actual warfare was merely a horrible game of hazard, in which the best man was as like to fall as the worst.

Therefore, whatever might be Lucien's view of the matter, she did not regret that she had helped Blumif she had helped him—to hunt down the duchess. The shortest way to end strife was to strengthen the hands of those who were strong, not those of the weak. She did not like Blum's account of all the armed men he had met.

A day or two after, he came in to say that Thiers had seen him—was led by collateral evidence to believe that the initials on the pencil-case were those of the duchess -and had set his spies to work accordingly.

She did not mention her work at Nantes until, one evening, he came to her with a clouded brow.

'I have heard from Thiers' agent,' said he. 'There is no trace of the duchess anywhere; they have lost every clue. He is terribly afraid that she may have escaped.'

'The best thing that could happen. Let her we shall have peace.'

'You are wrong; she is a mere firebrand. we shall have the same trouble over again.

go, and

In a year

It is im

possible to watch every mile of the coast; and yet she must be stopped at all hazards.'

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'Her followers will never betray her.'

'No; but she might betray herself.'

'How?'

She might insist on remaining in France against their wishes. If she did, we must find her in the end.' She is not likely to insist on staying now, is she? You yourself told me she would be beaten at every point.'

'The agent says it is by no means certain that the insurrection has failed in the South. One of the spies intercepted a letter yesterday. If it could be conveyed to the duchess, he is sure that she would not endeavour to leave the country. She will not go while there is a chance of success left.'

'What a pity he intercepted it, then!' said Jeanne dryly.

Blum did not understand.

'That is just what I say. Why could he not let well alone? These agents are so stupid. Now, nothing will serve him but that I must take it. I cannot leave my work again.'

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Why does he want you to go?'

'Because he can trust me. Because I am acquainted with the country, having just returned. Because I know Lucien by sight, and if I could find him and give him the letter, it would reach the duchess; they are in close communication, it seems. Thiers would pay all expenses. But I cannot go. I should lose my place.' 'Where is the letter? "Monsieur Bernard, Care of Monsieur Clémenceau, advocate, Nantes." What a simple address!'

'She was known by the name of Bernard in the South. They will recognise it.'

'I think,' said Jeanne, still keeping possession of the envelope,' that I had better go. I have to visit Nantes on business of my own. I can take this on the way.' 'You do not mean it?'

'Indeed I do. You will give me directions. I shall not be missed here as you would be. Trust me, I will not fail.'

'I have every confidence in you.'

Jeanne smiled. She scarcely heard what he said, but she was smiling to her own thought.

'Here are the notes,' he said. 'I think you will find them sufficient. If not, you can apply for more.'

No; Jeanne did not like the look of the notes, and he could not persuade her to take them. She refrained from suggesting what was quite clear to her-that the letter must be a fabrication. If Blum were simplehearted enough to think it genuine, why should she

undeceive him? But she could not accept secret-service money; and she had not determined whether to play this card or no. The missive seemed to her dangerous, and she was resolved to get it into her own hands-that was all, so far.

Blum, however, clung to the principle of ' fair work, fair wages.' If Jeanne became the postman, the postman's wages she should earn. Skilfully she avoided argument, always letting him feel that he got the better of her, always keeping tight hold of the envelope.

'As you say,' she observed, when he stopped for lack of breath, 'I can easily send for the money, later on. It would be a mere encumbrance to-morrow.'

She gave a sigh of weariness when he went upstairs to his room. Why did he need so many explanations? Why did he not know what she had known for the last three months-that her will was always his in the end?

Next morning she went to the Church of the Cordeliers; knelt a reasonable time in prayer; offered a candle at the shrine of St. Julian Hospitator, patron of travellers (she liked to think that he was also the patron of travelling minstrels); and returned home to pack her modest luggage.

The baby was at play in the window opposite. She kissed her hand to it before she left; it smiled and kissed a little fat hand in return. Jeanne sighed, and sudden tears stood in her eyes.

CHAPTER XX

A LETTER FROM TOULON

On the morning after Berryer's departure, as Lucien was leaning against the wall of the courtyard, half asleep in the sun after many a restless hour, something fell suddenly out of space, as it seemed, at his feet, and a hoarse voice said:

'Give that to Monsieur Bernard.'

No voice could have been more unlike the silver accents of the night before.

'Where are you?

He sprang up-looked round-could see no one. Quick as thought he pulled a loose brick out of the wall and scrambled to the top. No one was to be seen on the further side.

'Where are you?'

There was no answer.

He jumped down-he ransacked the little copse adjoining. He broke the song of a thrush as it swung on a hawthorn bough; but not a trace of any human being could he find; and he returned to the courtyard.

There on a mossy stone lay the letter, and on it was written in large, stiff characters: 'Monsieur Bernard, Care of Monsieur Clémenceau, advocate, Nantes.'

The postmark was Toulon.

It came, then, from the South. Who was Monsieur Bernard?

The same person as Monsieur Charles most likely— the same person as Petit-Pierre. He felt a strong re

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