somewhat incredulously; for truly the transition from a runaway schoolboy to a self-reliant young noble was a little sharp, a little incredible. But Francois, proving his new manhood by failing to resent the other's unbelief in it, quietly answered,—
"I hardly know, except that I go to-morrow into Normandy, to sell my possessions there to this rich contractor who wishes so much to become a proprietor. My one and twentieth birthday is past since yesterday."
"You will sell"—began the abbé aghast. But François interrupted him: "Do not let us argue, mon père," said he quietly, but with the air of the grand seigneur which had so lately come upon him. "I have no longer a country, a home, or a name. The king of France has stolen my father's honor and my fiancée's faith. He shall not rank me among his subjects, lest I, too, become a traitor and a coward. I renounce all that makes me a Frenchman; and, so soon as this business is concluded, I leave the country of Louis XIV., of Raoul de Montarnaud, of Gaston his son, and of Valerie de Rochenbois,—never, so help me God! to set foot upon its soil again."
"And where will you go? and how will you live?" asked the abbé, a tinge of excitement rising to his sallow cheek, and kindling his fervent eyes.
"I have hardly considered as yet," replied his pupil. "There is good fighting to be had in the Netherlands, and I am not an ill swordsman."
"I have a thought! You were lamenting that birth and fortune prevented your pursuing your surgical and
