had no doubt. She never reckoned all that she had risked herself. There was no merit in it; she could not have done otherwise, that was all. But a fierce contempt filled her soul for the other woman, who risked nothing. Why should it be she-she alone who could heal?

Jeanne checked the raging vehemence of question, terrified by her own hardness. Would she not have given her life that Lucien might recover? Only that morning had she not felt that she could give it, even for a chance that the sight of the one face he desired might soothe him? Had it not been her own resolve that she would bring that face to his bedside, if any earthly power could do so?

'Oh, I am wicked! I am wicked!'

Hiding her face in her hands, she prayed to be delivered from herself; and still her thoughts raged on beside her prayers.

Was this what it came to, then, to be a great lady? Was this what he must love-a broken reed that ran into his hand and pierced him when he leant on it? She must be beautiful indeed! Perhaps she did not mean to come after all; she might deceive again.

A little figure in a long brown cloak slid through the door, her finger on her lip, and stopped beside the bed. She had come.

Jeanne held her breath-looked.

'Not beautiful-not even young!'

She could have cried for joy, but the next impulse was to doubt.

'Can it be she?'

From under the cloak a small white hand stole forth, rested on Lucien's forehead. He had been lying with

half-shut eyes, now he opened them. He looked at her, shook his head, pointed to the door.

'No, no, not you! not you! You are ugly!'

The lady covered her face with her hands, and shrank behind the bed. Jeanne moved swiftly towards her, full of sudden compassion.

'He does not know,' she whispered.

The little lady drew herself up with such pride that it was Jeanne's turn to shrink, made the sign of the Cross over the bed, and vanished.

No sooner had the door closed on her than Jeanne flitted to a square of looking-glass hung on the wall, and surveyed her own features.

'Yes,' she said, 'I am prettier.'

She felt a rush of kindness in her breast that all her praying had not brought her.

From that night Lucien began to improve.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE BARON

'WHO made him a baron, I wonder?' said Guibourg. 'I am pretty sure that he did not inherit the honour.' Lucien smiled with languid amusement. He was much better, though he still looked pale, as he sat in what had been once a very grand arm-chair, found for him by Marthe somewhere in the recesses of the Castle, and supported by an infirm arrangement of stools instead of a fourth leg. Jeanne was by the table, at work upon the tall straight lilies of the Nuns' banner. She had neglected them of late, and they had not grown so fast as she promised they should; wherefore, every minute was precious. Guibourg had come in to see Lucien, and they were discussing the arrival of a gentleman who called himself the baron de Gonzague, and wished to be received at No. 3.

Do you care so much about rank?' said Lucien.

'I care about rank because the best blood wins in the end-because it means, as a rule, that the fellow has been brought up in proper surroundings.'

'I care nothing about that. I was born-no, brought up-in a windmill.’

'Brought up? Yes, I dare say. Anyone who had had the pleasure of looking at you for two minutes would know that you were not born in a windmill.' Jeanne glanced away from her work, like a bird

hearing the song of another bird; so she had often thought.

'It makes little difference,' Lucien said wearily. 'We were all born when the world began.'

Guibourg laughed.

In the case of the baron the stock has degenerated.' 'You have seen him?'

'Yes, I saw him at Mass in the Chapel at the Convent of the Visitation-the place that was recently searched, you remember. He goes to Communion there every day; he has a hoarse voice, but he says the responses with great devotion. The Superior is charmed; she asked me to introduce him, but I declined. There are too many in the secret as it is.'

'Do you wish me to go?' broke in Jeanne. 'I have never been told the secret.'

'Dear mademoiselle Jeanne,' said Guibourg readily, 'you must have guessed it.'

Jeanne smiled.

'I guessed it a long while ago."

'How?' said Lucien, his face changing. 'Did I name her?'

'The night that she came in to see you.'

'She came?' said Lucien eagerly-' she came? Jeanne stitched away hard.

'When?'

'The night that you slept for the first time.'

She compelled herself to say it, though her voice stiffened with the effort.

'It was like her,' said Guibourg.

Jeanne felt as if the room had grown cold.
Lucien said nothing.

'When did she ever fail in kindness?' Guibourg continued. 'I believe myself, it is out of pure kindness that she will insist on seeing this doubtful member of the nobility.'

'How did she hear of him?'

'Through mademoiselle Céleste, who goes often to the convent. She says she remembers him at Massa. He used to take despatches to Spain.'

He was the man who carried the letter to MarieAmélie, then, on behalf of monsieur de Kersabiec. Has that had any result?'

'None, so far as we know. For my own part, I do not feel sure that it was received.'

There is a man in Nantes now, who took a letter that I had for the duchess of Berry, about four months ago,' said Jeanne. I have often wondered whether it reached her hands.'

Both men looked at her, greatly startled.

She had always meant to tell Lucien, and now she saw her chance. In clear, business-like accents she spoke of Blum's return to Lyons; of the initials on the pencil-case; of the intercepted letter from the South, which she believed to be a forgery. She had almost reached Nantes, she said, when a man, whose voice was hoarse and his manner deprecating, yet insistent, accosted her one day on the highroad, informed her that he came from monsieur Thiers, and requested her, in the name of that Minister, to give him the letter. She had no means of resistance, and she saw herself compelled to surrender it, though with a feeling of strong reluctance.