the fewer the better. You can understand that these Pichots had an eye to my uncle's wealth. They feared at first that I should become his heir; but gradually they became reconciled to that idea, planning to grow rich by means of the influence they had obtained over me, or through the power they saw their daughter possessed to rule me. I need not dwell upon these matters," he spoke rapidly. "You must see that there would be an evident inconvenience in these people appearing upon the scene in the present state of things; especially if they should begin to talk; they may possess letters, and threaten to produce them, and it seems these Pichots are now in London, with the exception of the husband, who is ill in Paris. You can judge for yourself, Martin, how hateful it would be to me to have them forcing themselves upon my wife, telling talesto herof the past, of their acquaintance with me in my youth, and so on. You may be sure I would not, if I could help it, have Violet's ear poisoned with all the tattling of these hateful people, and that, if need be, I would pay any sum to keep them silent. You surely appreciate all this, Martin?"
"And is this all?" asked Martin, quietly, after a pause.
"Yes—all," Wilford answered, petulantly; "what more should there be?"
"And your only anxiety is, lest your wife should see these Pichots and hear what they may choose to tell her?"
"Yes. What other anxiety should I have?"
"I would have no dealings with these people, I think," said Martin; "certainly I would not buy their silence. Can you trust thcm even after you have paid them their price? It seems to me, Wilford, it would be better to trust your wife. I may say, however, that the whole history is not quite clear to me; but so far as I can judge, if there are-well, let us say unpleasant circumstances in the past which may come to your wife's knowledge, I maintain that it would be better that she should learn of them from you rather than from others."
"Thank you, Martin, for your patience-for your good advice. I will deliberate upon the matter."
"Do nothing rashly, however. You are not going '."'
"Yes, I must go now, indeed," and he moved to the door. There he stopped.
"Martin," he said, with a return to his old manner and with deep feeling in his voice, "bear with me. Give me still your confidence and friendship, for indeed I have great need of both. Perhaps I have not spoken to you so fully as I might. Perhaps there are other things to be told to enable you to judge rightly of my history. Forgive me if I have hesitated to enter upon thcse. Think that the opportunity is not a fitting one, or that I have not time or courage suflicient. I will renew the subject, if I can, on some other occasion; but I may not now."
Martin had only time to answer these hurried words by a kind pressure of Wilford's hand as he moved away.
"No," said Martin, as he found himself once more alone in his chambers. "Certainly, he has not told me all. I think," he added with a sigh: "it is always hard for a man to tell all."
If some thought of Violet then surged up in his mind, he thrust it down again; and he sought relief and found it, as it may always be found, in hard work for many hours.
CHAPTER XVIII. MADEMOISELLE BOISFLEURY.
Alexis. Was he man or boy? Let us leave the question open and call him Monsieur Alexis; he was more French than English—and there is no such thing as boyhood in France. The infants of that country almost as soon as they can speak, are capable of affaires de cœur and tendresses, and bonnes fortunes; they mature so rapidly. While one of our young compatriots is playing heartily at leapfrog, one of theirs is swearing (Grand Dieu, je jure sur la tombe de ma mère, &c.) devotion to la belle Celestine, or mingling tears with the adorable Madame Darville, and with her adorning the grave of her late husband (dead of a small-sword thrust in the right lung), with the most beautiful immortelles which the money of the deceased and deceived mari (how despicable the word seems to sound to French ears!) could possibly purchase. Monsieur Alexis sat at one of the windows on the second-floor of the house in Stowe Street; the reader has already been introduced to the apartment. Monsieur Alexis was amusing himself with opening and shutting the window at short intervals, looking out up and down the street expectantly, with breathing on the panes of glass and drawing on the clouded surface so obtained caricatures of a primitive design, or scribbling initial letters with a very dirty finger—he had others to match it—much notched and gnawed at the top, and the nail reduced by his teeth to the very smallest dimensions and the most unattractive form that was anyhow practicable. As an additional pastime, Monsieur Alexis occasionally permitted himself the interesting délassement of putting a fly to death by a process of torture as prolonged and painful as his ingenuity—not contemptible in that respect—could devise.
"ls he coming?" asked someone sitting at the other end of the room, whose restless foot kept up an impatient tapping on the floor.
"I don't see him," Alexis answered, after locking out, apparently rather pleased at having it in his power to give a disappointing answer.
"If he doesn't come—" some one began, and then stopped.
The speaker was a woman, of small stature, her figure well-proportioned, but inclined to be rather stout than slight. She was of very dark complexion, her hair jet black—it seemed to be almost blue where the light fell upon it—the black was so intense and the absence of any warm colour in it so complete. She had small, handsomely formed features, though the lower part of her face was somewhat too massive and hard in its lines. There was the shadow of a dark down upon her upper lip, which she was now compressing and biting in some anger and impatience. Her eyes were very brilliant; enhanced in that quality by her strongly defined, thick. black eyebrows, which, unconsciously perhaps, she brought