The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, August 14, 1904, Page 3

THE SAN FRA NCISCO SUNDAY CALL e R T e R B e S L L B e O e N A A P . LD 0 RSO 3 . . (55 and restrained her. iard of the cities never once left her in doubt. A child would have under- stood him—he was utterly unable to hide hi Ises either for good or evil. her knew to-night that he loved her; she read his story in every glance. This young Span- “Yes,” he continued impulsively, throwing away his cigarette and bend- ng over her until she could feel his hot breath upon her cheek, “you are t beautiful thing in all the the ¥ wor Paris has told you so, but it Your face haunts me—it I say! I shall come to the Hoche to-morrow—I shall fol- you wherever you go; 1 defy you forbid me—" She was a little afraid of his sud- T or and she stood up to escape e which was almost a cares: to see you,” s e is Doctor Xa- me!” jeed, had already re- in the door of hing her with which she was even when she A little to her ddress her com- t for Tntil bowed The doctor, rned, and to-morrc man and left her, went up, in so confusion, to h ‘I have be * she pleaded it A co ted ssed his face, snd b rough his own. > home, cama- done.” > meaning of his she quite un- most pa’ tic kindness had treated her since ain. TI va room vded when she returned to them Eyes followed her now as they had followed her iwo hours ago the echo of voices, the olins; and then she crowded courtyard, brougham, she asked gone on to the house ' was his an- anxious about is old enough to take I wish to talk to you ght; we shall have few ed out into the and the aware that g her ha deep-set uld read ve months n y associat as any daugh- her house y that he was M , absent 1 1 t, sometimes the natic and the exile, lled her. To-night his essing as a child’s. H ately wk d that he ling her with thc ght, « 1 with s of gen- oods, t ad to , “I made x months I kept it exclaimed re- noth- your house another world. h a questio looked at the upon which a snow had I made a promise med it. You are the oman in Paris to- n to you. You power which is oman can p X d of those who win nfidence. . In my own Stow our secret upon y is mot yet. Pe be. Destiny am more concerned that you should call nean something in d her not a little. icts of her generous akened by this appe: She felt like one who is asked by a father, “Do you trust me?” She longed to tell him much, but could say so little “You have given me life itself!” she exclaimed. “I could never thank you enough! I have no words to thank you. You are the best, the only friend I have ever known! He drew her to him and kissed her. “Call me that always, camarade—call me that wh befall.” The carriage stopped with his words, and they alighted quickly and went up to the splendid apartment he had engaged for her in the Avenue Hoche. Esther has never forgotten that great white salon lighted by shaded lamps, so full of riches, so dainty in its minutest orname that salon in which she stood to say “Good night” to her friend and benefactor. For a moment she saw s kindly eyes beaming upon cloak thrown back, his white crished between s iron fingers; . without a word, was gone, and Suzanne, her maid, tood at her elbow. CHAPTER XL Esther slept but little that night. Despite her desire to sleep, the scene d quitted haunted her and she 1 not escape it. In some measure, the ominous “good night” which Xavier had spoken warned her of impending change and of some new way of life at present undeclared. She feared that such a change might not be without its dangers. The for- tune which had come to her might, said an il voice of foreboding, be ken away. In moods of depression she would imagine herself helpless, friendless, the inconspicuous figure of the theater’s door. From such moods the mirror was her habitual refuge. he knew that she had become a very utiful woman. She could not sleep, and the strange room contributed to her unrest. It was very tasteful, very complete; but its old French furniture, its parquet flooring, the long stiff glasses and the pictureless walls robbed it of homeli- ness and suggested the visit. Esther regretted in some way the pretty chalet at Thonon and the life in the couniry of vines. At the worst, she thought, they would spend a few weels in Paris before returning to the sunshine and the south. If she had any consolation it was in her own precious secret, but half confessed even to herself. Here in this city, from whose sights and sounds the too, Doctor hill lands had taught her to shrink, the romance of her life had been found. Esther, recalling the scene at the Duke’s house, closed her eyes and, like one who dreamed while waking, she repeated Arthur's words. “He loves me,” she said, “he loves me—and to-morrow I shall see him!” There is no hour more supreme in a young girl's life than this. Content in her dreams Esther fell asleep at last and did not wake until the morn- ing was far advanced, and a newer stronger yoice of Paris echoed in the avenue beneath her window. She knew it was very late, and in that suspicion the untiring Suzanne con- firmed her when she came bustling into the room with the steaming cof- fee and the dainty bath gown. “Ah, mademoiselle, how you ‘have slept! It is almost time for dejeuner. And the doctor left so early. Do you know it is 11 o'clock—of course not; we never know what time it is when we are asleen.” “At what time did Madame Julia re- turn, Suzanne?” she asked of the bus- tling maid; “it was very late, I am sure.” Suzanne, skimming about the room like a bird, answered gayly: “Ah, s late enough, selle, for she is not yet :2turned. It is always like that in Paris. You walk, you drive, you laugh, you eat— she w made- but slee ~heaven, who would sleep here! There's so much to see. It would be a betise to sleep., made- moiselle.” Esther laughed at her drollery, but e the less, a little troubled madame no message, he must be staying at a Perhaps I ought not to akfast until s comes; elfish to go on. “Not fish at all, mademoiselle. Every one ‘goes on’ in P: Perhaps Julia will never come back at ot know. There is the doc- she was, Julia” “Did leave m all. I do > indic writing e Troomn and at once the ndwriting of her friend and n r. e had been not a little mystified last night by the enigmatical which Dr. Xaxier addressed to her, and now when she d that he had quitted the house nd that this letter was his message, she opened it very anxiously and read ¢ through to the end as something at present beyond her understanding. The formality of it startled her. She had an envelope upon the irther end r recognized large words not reed many lines when she realized it was a |l r of farewell. 14 AVENUE HOCHE, ““At Midnight “Dear Miss Venn: Your determina- to cor Alow ler me still as your friend something to that necessity compels me to quit Paris E abruptly, and will forgive the brief farewell which alone is pos- sibie in this emergency. Such facts of 'y become known to you nt months we have labored a common cause have taught you that, if science is much to my country is more. Events, g and swift, call an exile from ret and command his service. My fellow-countrymen summon me and 1 go to them, whether it be for good or at 11 T know not; but as a patriot and a servant 1 accept the call. The same cause compels me, for the moment, to restore to you that independence of life and action which I asked of you six months ago. We have set ourselves an aim and we have reached it. More elo- quent that any words of mine must be that vuice of Paris which you have heard so unmistakably and will hear in in t happy days which I trust await you. The gift which you possess is the rarest and most precious which women can win. It will open every door to you. Set no confines to your ambition, save those which your own character and actions may trace. Use it as becomes your wise discretion and your gentle disposition. Remem- ber that there is nothing beyond your reach if your wisdom is your inaster. me day, be, your destiny and mine wil us together again. leave that to the unwritten future, but th it T say that the man of science s you, that the friend re- The rooms which you your own, for your for prese than members u. occupy in Paris ocel tivn or disposal as you may think fit. And, furthermore, the Bank of France has my instructions to pay to you upon the first days of January and July in each year the sum of twent thousand francs, that you may be deprived of nothing to which my own of life has accustomed you. This trifling obligation you will permit to 2 man whose vanity you have flattered and whose scientific fame you have assured. Believe me that his farewell is not spoken lightly or with- out a sense of that kindness and pati- ence he h: suffered at your hands, and you will find him always in mem- ory and grateful homage, “Your devoted “XAVIER DE MONTALVAN.” Esther put the letter down, and standing at the open window she watched the people in the sunny avenue below. Her first thought was that they were strangers to her, and that she had been left utterly alone in this great city. That Doctor Xavier would change his mind, or retprn, she knew to be impossible. Every sentence in that letter spoke finality, the end of those months of wonder and surprise. The play was done with; she must face the world alone. Esther pressed her hands to her forehead l1ike one incapa- ble of clear thought, while she asked herself many times what she should do, whither turn, where seek a friend! Was it all real, or were those months of mystery but creatures of imagination? Would she awake in London in her garret, the unknown, uncared-for country girl? The glass forbade that hallucination. Her own beauty was a precious thing to her now. And none could rob her of it. Esther stood sud- denly and asked herself if that were so! Would Francisco Xavier's-gift en- dure? Some whisper of an evil premo- nition told her that it might not. Suzanne came into the room anon and asked her what she wished to do. The girl was evidently aware of her mas- ter’'s departure; but she waited for Esther to speak of it. “There is the carriage, mademoiselle, and the Bois. It is not good to be in the house when the sun is shining. You must make friends in Paris—ah! you will not be long about that! When one is beautiful all the doors are open! Take my advice, mademoiselle, and drive to-day. We can think about England afterward. Oh, the good God forbid that it does not snow when we go out there!” Esther, acting still like one in a dream, said that it might be as Su- zanne dictated; and afterward she dressed herself, deliberately and but half aware of that which she was do- ing. In the park her carrlage was second to none. She knew that men turned and stared at her, that women whispered when she passed them by. But their homage meant little. Two questions agitated her unceasingly. Why had Doctor Xavier left her in Paris? What was her own future to be? The generous allowance of which the letter had spoken was a recom- pense, in some way, unearned; and yet in others her due. She was wise enough to see that she had large claims upon her benefactor. - For six months she had devoted herself, heart and soul, to his service. Some humiliations were inseparable from such an aim as he pursued. Esther had given unstint- ingly, and this was her reward. She was quite a long while before she un- derstood that her allowance was to be two thousand pounds a year, and that the furniture and the rooms in the Avenue Hoche were her own. When she returned to those rooms at five o'clock the drive had refreshed her, and her first perturbation had passed. She was alone, truly; but how fortunate in her loneliness! A letter from the Bank of France informed her that the sum of one thousand pounds stood there to her credit. The whole world was open to her if she did not care to make Paris her home. Perhaps she thought of Devonshire and the cathedral city, and of the lanes and gardens of her own country. But if she had any mind to visit them, an luence more potent restrained her. She remembered the Prince—was he not still in Paris? Es- ther's cheeks were burning when she reflected that he might come to her. But it was not with fear, for she knew that he loved her. . e . He came at half-past five, driving a pair of horses in a light mail-phaeton, and wearing a long coat trimmed with sable and a cap to match it. The night had set in chill and cold; filmy flakes of snow began to fall as soon as the sun had set. Esther was in the very act of assuring Suzanne that she could not possibly dine at a restaurant, when the bell rang loudly, and that blithe maid went hurrying away to answer it. There had been many callers in the Avenue Hoche since they came to Paris —the flat had been besieged by idlers abundantly; but Esther knew, with a woman’s instinct, that this wag no formal visitor, sent there at theffdic- tates of curlosity. She was not at all surprised when the Prince entered without ceremony, and at once in- formed her that he knew of Doctor Xavier's absence. “I1 defied you to forbid me,” he said gaily, “and here I am. It Is snowing outside, and my horses are gone. You are far too generous to send me away, Miss Venn. I appeal to your instincts of pity.” He slipped off his fur coat, upon which the glistening drops of snow were melting, and delighted, apparent- ly, by her embarrassmert, he spoke of Francisco Xavier. “So El Demonio has gone to Spain,” he said; “I heard the news in the Jockey Club this morning. Naturally my friends in Paris hasten to remind me of my misfortunes. ‘Your cause is lost,’ they tell me, just at the moment when I am saying that it is won! Per- mit me a cigarette, and I will tell you all about it. I am sure you are anxi- ous.” She did not tell him that she was not. His attack was so swift, his manner so irresistible, that she had neither the opportunity to forbid nor the will to deny him. For the first time since the Doctor had left her, she realized that she was not alone in Paris. Why should she send away the one friend she had found? “Doctor Xavier went away very early,” she said, offering him the only possible explanation she could give. “I had no idea he was going, or 1 should not have allowed you to cali upon me. He has gone to Spain; the affairs of his country call him there.” “Of his country and of mine; of course. Do you know what I am ask- ing myself just now, Miss Venn? I see that you do not. Well, T am asking myself precisely how far Francisco Xavier has played upon your'creduli- ty." “Upon mine? Oh, please do not say that. I have never doubted Doctor Xaviér's honor.” “Then you are probably the first per- son who has paid him such a compli- ment. I came here to-night to recite a little page of history. Do not imagine that 1 am the hero of the story—far from it; L am the dupe. Francisco Xavier shall get his @eserts, no more, no less. 1 wiil tell you the truth about him.” “I have always believed Doctor Xavier to be my friend,” she confessed with some concern. “If T do not know I cannot blame him. Why should he have told me, Prince? What have 1 to do with it?” He leaned back upon the cushions of the sofa and laughed a little ironically. ““What have you to do with it? Yes, as your Shakespeare says, ‘That is the question.” Why did he quit Spain and go to England? Why am I an idler in Paris when I should be at the head of my people? Is it not all a splendid puz- zle, a game of chess with human fig- ures? Oh, do not think that he is not cle iere IS net e Cner head in Burope! 1 am no more able to stand against him than the shingle against the sea. But I make a move, neverthe- le: that is why I am here to-night.” The riddils of it silenced her. She could neither answer nor help him. When Suzanne carried in the tea-tray, she was relieved. She dreaded, she knew not why, that which must come after. “Do you take tea, Prince?” she asked, interrupting him with a commonplace. He threw away his cigareite and held out his hand. “From you it will be nectar. We Spaniards peison ourselves with choco- late; but you will make me your Eng- anything of his past. lish tea in Spain, and we shall call 5. o'clock’ a fashion. Let us take that which is best from both countries and begin with ourselves.” He laughed at his own idea, and be- gan to sip the steaming. tea. His jest brought the blood to Esther’s cheeks. She was sure that she ought to protest, but she had not a word to say for her- self. “I have always heard that the Eng- lish are unpopular in Spain,” she re- marked, aimlessly. “Why should I be the exception.” “Because you are the indlvidual and not the nation. It is only a lunatic who quarrels with others because they are not fellow-countrymen. I have been twice round the globe and it seems to me that a man who is born in San Francisco is at heart much the same as the man who is born in Paris. He eats, drinks and sleeps; he loves and is loved—lucky man! Let us leave him for a moment and return to Spain. I have not a timetable with me or I would have looked out our train; but I think it will be the Sud express, Miss Venn, -at half-past seven In the evening.” She put down her cup, determined to be serious. “Why do you speak like this, Prince?” she protested; “why do you offend me?” “Then you are offended? No, I refuse to believe it. You are merely unaware of the circumstances. [ will tell you about them; I came to do so—if you do not forbid me?” “No, T am anxious to hear them.” He settled himself upon the sofa and watched her face intently while he spoke. “Then let us go back a little way, and I will ask you a question. What do you knew of my country—what do you know of. Cadi, Miss Venn?” “I know little, Prince, nothing.” practically “As I thought; it is scarcely, I imag- ine, a name to you.” “It certainly is no more.” “In your school days, perhaps, you saw it marked as a little yellow spot upon the maps of Spain and France. You heard that a Prince ruled it under the suzerainty of the republic. You have read that its people were Spanish, wild mountaineers, hardy fellows of the hills. If you had been a reader of traveiers'- books—which heaven grant you are not!—you would haye known that it is a rich country because of its mines; t in its capital, the town of Cadi, there is the life, the gayety and the society of an-older Paris. All that is the schuolmaster's preparation for our parable. One would have had to read the newspapers very closely te write the inner story of that fascinat- ing state. 1 am not a historian—no, I know more about a race horse than di- plomacy; but I will try to be your his- torfan to-night. Cadi, Miss Venn, has had many princes. I am the last of them. M: father died when I was 13 years old, and, by the laws of my country, a Regent was appointed. That Regent was Francisco Xavier, your friend. He educated me, he was my guardian, friend, until my twentieth year. I trusted him like -a brother. From my earliest days I had been taught that the loyalty of my people was unalterable. Judge of my awak- ening when I discovered in my twen- tieth year that if I were the Prince of Cadi in name, Francisco Xavier was in deed! He had won the allegiance my youth had lost me. A united state was united-no longer. My friends were the youth, the romance of my country; his_ were the wisdom, the balance, the sa- gacity. Twelve months later they called me to the throne. I found my- self a splendid nonenity. The very cries In the streets were for Xavier de Montalvan. The papers that I signed were his handiwork; the laws were his laws. But the army was mine! I drove him out of Cadi and France approved. Henceforth I was my own master in ngme and deed—you are Interested, Miss Venn? I do not weary you?” Esther, unable to take her eyes from his face, showed how great her interest was. “But you, yourself, Prince—why are ycu not at Cadi now “I will tell you in a word. Because I have not fulfilled Cadi's law.” He shifted uneasily in his seat and turned away from her while he spoke. “By the custom of a thousand years,” he said, “the princes of my country must marry within a year of their accession. That year is up in ten days from this day. If I let the tenth day pass and remain as I am, my king- dom goes to another—my rights, my possessicns, my authority are taken from me. Francisco Xavier is ban- ished, but his name remains beloved of his friends. In ten days he will achieve his ends. Do you know why he quitted Paris this morning?” He turned his ardent eyes upon her, but she could not meet that steadfast gaze, and stammering a commonplace vould have concealed hen agitation 1 am very sorry for you, Prince. If I had known— “How should you? It is not old Xa- habit to make a confidant of his Even 1 sometimes fail to un- derstand him. Why, for instance, has he left you in Paris? Shall I say that it Is beca he wishes you to be my wife?"” “No, no! indeed no!” she cried, draw- ing away from him; but he held her hand and drew her toward him in spite of herself. “Let us make an end of the riddles,” he said. “You know that I love you, you have known it since that night I first found you in this city nd spoke the promise. Can such a man as I am be mistaken? If T were a boy, the son of one city—yes, 1 might deceive my- self; but I, who have traveled twice round the world, who have known the best and the worst of men and women —Esther, could I deceive elf? No, no, I love you with all 2 man’s heart— I shall love you to my life’s end! Es- ther, you can save me—you can save my country. Come with me, come to Cadi as my wife!” She tried to silence him, but the words failed her; and overwhelmed and trembling, she let him close his arms ut her and felt his lips upon her own, and knew that her destiny was this. CHAPTER XIL The marriage of the reigning Pri: - of Cadi to one whom Paris had already learned to call “La Belle Inconnue,” was the brief sensation of a winter month. People discussed little eise for many days. A beautiful woman had come to the city; she had been seen, she had conquered. The pretty mance made gossip for tae cafes while it entertained the salons with eloquent mendacities. From the chroniques scandaleuses you got a hundred ver- every one cf them a lie. Some said that the bride was an American of fabulous wealth; others declared that her English wsa rquired, and that she came from Spain. There were twenty es for the hasty marrlage, and them more false than the other. the end, Paris came to the con- that it really was a young It remained for the Prince’s friends to declare that he had sold himself for good bank notes, and that his repentance would be speedy. Esther knew nothing of this, nor did any unkind word reach her ears. She had promised to marry Prince Arthur, because she believed that by marriage bhe would save his kingdo So little, until this moment of decision, had she dared to the question, that even until the end she could not wholly understand how greatly she loved and was beloved in her turn. The morning brought his roses; together they break- fasted at Durand’'s or one of the great- er cafes. The afternoon found them driving in the Bois: there were dinners and theaters at night. . What time had she for that preparation so necessary If it had not been for the Prince" sions In clusion man's story. s friend, the untiring laughing, scheming Pauline, Baronne d’Arbois, Esther de- clared that she would never have been married at all. . Pauline, Baronne d’Arbois, has been a leading figure in the later-day world of Paris. The church, the state, the salon, the theater, have, in turn, been ruled by her. Prince Arthur had no friend more enthusiastic, perhaps none so frequently embarrassing. When Pauline heard of his approaching mar- riage, 5. when learned that his bride one and friendless in the city, no carriage was fast enough to carry her to Esther’s side. “Ah, my child!" she exclaimed In rapture, “what a splendid secret—and all Paris knows of it! I have come here at dear Arthur's request. You must let me be a sister to you. You must positively leave everything in my hands.” Esther was overawed by this well- schooled woman of the world, and cheerfully gave up her independence. She had exacted from Arthur a prom- ise that their marriage should be In some part a secrei, and he had acqui- ced willingly enough. “Secret or public, what does it mat- ter if it gives me Esther!” he an- swered. “I will be married in a cellar, if it please you. Of course, we must not forget your English birth. There will be a ceremony at the embassy and afterward at St. Eustache. The Bar- onne will be there—no gate in Paris could shut her out. We shall have to tolerate her because we are going to her house to breakfast afterward. I have thought about all the rest, and it is quite sgtti We shall take the Sud express to my chateau at St. Girons. Guadarez, the captain of my civil guard and my oldest friend, will go on to Cadi with the news. If, as I expect, the people receive it with acclamation, we shall spend a fortnight at the cha- teau and then visit our capital. You need not ask if I look forward to that day! Ah, to take you to them, Esther, to take the most beautiful thing in all the world!"” She had nothing to urge against it, although the doubt he had expressed remained in her thoughts. He, how- ever, was full of his scheme, and chiefly of that part of it which con- cerned his kingdom. “0Old Xavier believes that he has out- witted me, but we shall see!” he said, like one anxious to be convinced. “You owe him much, Esther, and we must be kind to him. I have always been willing to honor him if he would con- sent to serve. But he desires to be the master. He believes that he can rule in Cadi and that the people will banish me. I imagine he is greatly mistaken. You see that I am doing exactly as he wished me to do. mains to be known if T am wise.” He did not admit to Esther the grave doubt which harassed him: in truth, his object appeared to be so to occupy her time that she should have neither the leisure to repent nor the will to draw back. And in this he easily suc- ceeded. It seemed to her but yester- day that he had sald, “I love you!™ and the words were still In her ears when Suzanne awoke her upon her wedding day. From that moment her impressions were blurred and vague. She remembered the sunny streets of P: the white satin clinging to her subtle limbs, the orange blossoms twin- ing about her splen vell—but distantly, as in a dream. Paris said that the Church of St. Eustache had rarely been so crowded. Esther recol- It re- lected little of that service. She re- called the press of figures, Ilights against a background of goid; towering palms, the face of a priest, another face —that of the man she loved, close to her own and whispering often Je t'aime! The concluding scenes were at the church door where the beggars of Paris pressed close upon the skirts of the rich. Esther remembered driving away In the Baronne's brougham to the Hotel d’Arbols in the Faubourg St. Ger- main. there, n 1 her hands; heard the m > of a string band; saw her husband everywhere, his w A hundred women kissed her she form of white and gold conspicuous even in that abode of color. Then, swiftly, the scene changed. Maids were busy over h She put on a pretty gown of green and gold with sable about the neck of it ngratu- lations were showered upon her. She passed down where the sold were those of the guar the immense staircase serried ranks of Paris. A carriage conveyed her quickly to the station. She rer 1 that Gau- darez, the capt affed her band about A bell rang, 2 horn n steamed out of the station upon its way to the south. She was alone with her hus- band at 1 The coupe which had been engaged for of flowers that very odor insuppe 't was to let d dows a little wa them seemed so full sther thought their table. Arthur's first n one of the and to speak of friend Gaudarez. “He is a,splendid fellow,” he ex- claimed, waving a hand to a distant figure on the piatform, “and he follows us to-n Of course, our people must know at once. He will go on to Cadl to-morrow. It a lor journey, and I could r there without a rest. Come ife, there are none to see—I you!—must!— must! He covered her face with passionate k and holding her close with a Spaniard’s ardor, he made the confes- sion due to her. “Ah,” he said, “my people will for- give me wh hey see you—I never doubted it! They must forgive me!” She looked up at him a little troubled. o very terrible, then, your not terrible, they are But the law is there; and I am the first man who has ever “I do not understand you, dearest; please tell me.” “There nothing to tell,” he con- with a gayety which was so plainly forced that it did not deceive her. “By the law of Cadi I am sup- posed to marry a Spaniard. I not done so. Very well, my people will be amu At first, perhaps, they will grumble; but afterward, when they s s le wife—ah, then—" you, He kissed her again, like one who would thus silence her suspicions. He did not 1 her that by the law of Cadi the penalty for that which he had done was death. “You ould have told me before, dear,” she pleaded, with a gentle pro- test. “I do not think it was right of you to have kept it from me.” He mocked her fears, but so caress- ingly that she could not resist him. “The girl who has reigned in Paris will certainly reign In my own coun- try,” he said. “Are you not the most beautiful thing in all the world? Let them search Europe—where would they find such a wife for me? You know that they could not, Esther—the glass tells you so every day! You are mine— mine! and I would not give you up for all the kingdoms of the world He went on to blame himseif for his candor, assuring her that the very law had long been forgotten in Spain and promising her that when she met old Xavier again she would be the mis- tress and not the pupil. “We are a free people, our Prince. While he observes the common law, nothing is denied him. They will fete us to the end of time, little wife. We shall dine all day and feast all night. You must like Cadi! I say that it Is the greatest city in Europe, and the palace has been the treasure house of kings. Guadarez goes on to make everything ready for us. I have ordered carriages to meet us at Folx to-morrow at dawn, and we shall reach St. Girons in time for breakfast. Ah, mame, what days of love before us—what days of lovel™ She listened patiently, although her suspicions were awakened. From the first she had told herself that sooner or later a cloud would darken the hor- jzon of her happiness. Here was the truth at last. Esther would not hide it from herself that if this law of Cadi were strictly enforced, her marriage could be nothing but morganatic. Spain would not recognize her; she would occupy the least emnviable posi- tion that can fail to a wife. “If your people like me,” she said, expressing all her doubt. “Are you sure of it, dear Arthur? Have you thought what the consequences of dis- like might be for us?” He leant back upen the cushions and tried to play the philosopher. “I nmever quarrel with the present, Esther,” he said. “We lose half the happiness of life when we ask ques- tions about to-morrow. Does it really concern us, except semtimentally? I am a rich man; and whether I make my home in Franee or in Spain you will share it. That is enough for me. If Gaudarez comes back and tells me unpleasant things I shall not cross the frontier. The lamb who lies down with the wolf is not accustomed to dine upon mutton. If Cadl says ‘no," very well; we will return to Parls and shake the snow off our heeis. But it is foolish to anticipate that which may not happen. My people are romantic and our little story will please them. I have implored Gaudarez to lose no time. He understands how much de- pends upon him. The rest of the pro- gramme is our own. We arrive at Foix about sunrise; it is a long drive through the hills, but my horse can do it in eight hours. We should be at St. Girons In time for dinner. The place but we love