alone, most often in grief and tears, as you know, Father. I have groaned in solitude over errors I could not prevent; God, it would seem, did not hold me firm enough to deserve the victory. I had to bear more suffering to purchase this gift of grace. Well, I will suffer gladly! The Almighty's will be done!"
Meantime, behind the Marquise and P^re Delar, the Tutor was walking with his two charges. Scarcely older than they—the Abbe was only eighteen—he took part in all their amusements.
"Brother," began the older, "do you know what is the fashionable game now at Court?"
"Of course I do, my father told me yesterday at supper; it is called ombre."
"Well then, let us play at ombre."
"Impossible; to begin with, we must have cards, and besides, we don't know how to play."
"One player is the ombre " (shade).
"And the other?"
"Faith! the other is afraid, I suppose, and so he loses."
"Now, brother," went on the elder, "let us say no more about cards; you know our mother does not like it, she thinks cards bring misfortune."
At that moment Madame de Chauvelin rose from her seat.
"My mother is going away into the park," replied the younger lad, following her with his eyes; " so she will never see us. Besides, the Abbé, who is with us, would warn us if it were wrong."
"It is always wrong," said the Tutor, " to grieve one's mother."
"Oh! but my father plays cards at Court," retorted the child with that pitiless logic that like all weak things clings to any and every support. " My father plays, so we can."
The Abbé could find nothing to say, and the child went on:
"Look, my mother is bidding good-bye to Father Delar; she is going with him as far as the gate . . . he is on the point of going. Only wait a bit; once Father Delar is gone, my mother will return to her oratory; we will go into the Chateau after her, ask for cards and have a game."
The children watched their mother's form growing fainter and fainter in the deepening shadow of the trees beneath which she finally disappeared.
It was one of those delightful evenings that come before the heats of May. The trees were still leafless, but the swelling buds showed they would soon assume their summer garb. Some, like the chestnuts and lindens, more precocious than the rest, were already clothed in the first tender green of springtide. The still air was filled with the first swarms of the myriad winged insects that are born with the Spring to perish in the Autumn. They could be seen dancing in millions in the last rays of the setting sun, which turned the river into a riband of gold and purple, while to the eastward, that is the direction in which Madame de Chauvelin had plunged into the depths of the park, all objects were beginning to merge into that lovely bluish haze that is seen only at certain specially favoured seasons of the year. Infinite peace and beauty reigned supreme over the twilight landscape.
Amidst this silence seven o'clock sounded from the castle clock, the strokes vibrating long on the evening breeze.
Suddenly the Marquise, who was saying farewell to her Monkish Confessor, uttered a loud cry.
"What is it?" asked the Reverend Father, returning to her side; "what ails you. Marquise?"
"Ails me? Oh! nothing, nothing. But, oh God . . .!" and the Marquise blanched visibly.
"But you cried out! . . . You felt some pang or pain! ... At this very moment you are growing paler and paler! What is the matter? in heaven's name, what is the matter?"
"Impossible! my eyes deceive me!"
"What do you see? speak, Madame, speak!"
"No, there is nothing," and on the ^Monk's still pressing her, " nothing, nothing," she repeated emphatically. But her voice died between her lips, and her eyes stared fixedly into the gloom, while her hand, white as ivory, was lifted slowly to point towards something her companion could not see.
"For pity's sake, Madame," urged Père Delar eagerly, "tell me what it is you see."
"Nothing, I see nothing! No, no, it is sheer folly," cried Madame de Chauvelin, " and yet ... oh! look, look 1 "
"Look where? "
"Yonder, yonder, do you see? "
"I see nothing."
"You see nothing . . . there, there!"
