laying it open and making it ready for the sharp, redhot thrusts that came afterwards. We do the same, all of us, often. We grind the weapons that are to wound us. But, thank God, the weapons are not always evil, and such leave no poison in the wound. "Mademoiselle, did you hear the clock actually strike?" said Nannon, bustling up. "To think of its being so late! We must make haste; the days grow so short, and the virgins up there do not carry their lamps lit." She pointed as she spoke to the Cathedral porch, where the parable is graven, and the ten stand in their changeless attitudes of despair or bliss. M. Deshouliéres, Thérèse, and Nannon passed under them. It was not so dark as Nannon represented, but a sweet duskiness was veiling all the bright tints; people sat outside their houses laughing and chattering with their children; a few lights began to appear, and in the distance was heard the indistinct roll of a drum. Rue St. Servan looked gloomy when they turned into it: the light always left it early. When M. Deshouliéres wished Thérèse good-evening, he said in a low voice, and with a smile which, in the darkness, she did not see "Do not stay so long by the river another evening, mademoiselle, and do not take Nannon for your only friend." CHAPTER IX. "A stirring of the heart, a quickening keen That mysterious light, Which doth reveal and yet transform; which gives Lifts up; a shining light: men call it love." --JEAN INGELOW. WHEN he had left the two women, M. Deshouliéres went slowly away from the Roulleaus towards his own house. The café at the corner of the little Place was brilliantly lit; outside, between great tubs of evergreens and climbing daturas, men were sitting in knots, smoking, drinking coffee, or mixing horrible little decoctions of absinthe. Instead of joining the group, and reading his evening budget of the Patrie, the Gaulois, or the Organe du Département, as he might have done at another time, M. Deshouliéres strolled away to one of the more deserted seats under the trees, where there was not sufficient cheerful light or sound for the attraction of idlers, and he was not likely to be recognised. There was his own house opposite to him, dark and dreary-looking. Some of the windows round were open, light streamed out, figures sat in the balconies; one woman he particularly noticed in a white shining dress, with a child clambering on her knee; he could hear happy voices, laughter and singing. His own house looked like a dark patch in the middle of all this cheerfulness: presently, one little feeble light passed a window, disappeared, and shone out again in the story above. "There is Veuve Angelin going upstairs," commented M. Deshouliéres, and for the first time a feeling of dissatisfaction took shape in his mind. Why had he no one better than Veuve Angelin to welcome him on his return? Why should his house be so unlike those others? It, too, had a balcony-he had hardly noticed it before. Why might not a lady, in a white shining dress, sit there in a little glow of warm light? He half closed his eyes, and pictured her to himself: she had a slight figure, dark brown hair, lying lightly on her forehead; grey eyes, with the beseeching look he had more than once remarked. "Every place must be a little sad to me, for I belong to no one." His shining lady would say no such pathetic words. Ah! M. Deshouliéres, you opened your heart to Pity, and another visitant slipped in unawares ! It seemed but a little while to himself that he sat there under the trees in his solitude, yet, when at last he roused himself to move, half the lights had vanished, and only two or three excited politicians remained before the café, for there was a September chill in the air in spite of the day's heat. Max was thoroughly ashamed, on glancing round, to realise the time he had wasted in his vague dreams. It was too late to light another cigar; he got up, shook himself, and walked across to his house, which no longer looked so different. A little primitive light-nothing more than a wick in a glass of oil-burnt feebly within the entrance, and at the head of the stairs stood Veuve Angelin in an injured frame of mind. "So monsieur has come at last," she said sharply, "when all the world has been seeking him here and there for the last two hours. There has been a message from the Evêché: they are all in the greatest commotion: Monseigneur may be dead by this time, or recovered, which would be almost as bad, considering that that miserable little Monsieur Pinot would have the whole credit of it." "What was the message?" asked M. Deshouliéres, calmly. "Monseigneur felt himself more feeble this evening, and desired monsieur to come without delay. If by any evil chance they found him absent, M. Jean was to fetch M. Pinot at once. I did my best; I got him to talk about that affair at Minguard, which kept him a I little; but it is too horrible to think of that other creature's triumph. If monsieur were to walk very fast, he might, after all, be in time.” "There is no occasion whatever for such an exertion, Marie, since M. Pinot is there. Monseigneur is quite safe with him.” "And monsieur will not go!" "Oh, yes, I shall go in due time. Only I should decidedly like my coffee first. And, stay, have there been no other messages?" "Only one from that old André. The boy is worse -or so they said." "Why did you not say so?" demanded M. Deshouliéres, sternly. "Give me my coat at once." "But, monsieur, the coffee?? "Give me my coat." "Monseigneur” But the doctor was already clattering down the stairs. "Ouf! what a man!" muttered Veuve Angelin, throwing up her hands. "He clever! He is no more fit to manage his affairs than a child-an idiot! I do what I can, but he overthrows everything. Monseigneur sending for him, that wretched little Pinot longing to jump into his shoes, and in the face of it all he first orders his coffee, and then rushes off to that old misery André, whose boy might as well be dead as alive, |