The two young men shook hands with a smile.

  “I believe,” said Amaury, “I heard you say you wished to have a few moments private talk with Philip. I will therefore leave you, and do what I wish to do.”

  Amaury bowed, and withdrew slowly with the air of a man weighed down by the responsibility, of a step which he is about to take, said a few words of thanks to Albert, mounted his horse and galloped off.

  “Now that we are alone, M. Philippe,” said the Count, “I will admit to you that Monsieur de Léoville had good cause to let you know that your attentions were compromising Antoinette; another affair like this, and I doubt whether Antoinette, with all her wealth and beauty, would ever have a chance of being married.”

  “Sir,” said Philip, “I owned a few moments ago, that I was in the wrong, and I repeat it; but I know how to repair my mistake. I am a man of slow resolution, but once my resolve taken, nothing moves me from my purpose.

  “Sir, I have the honour to wish you good-morning.”

  “But what are you going to do?” asked Monsieur de Mengis, anxious lest this serious air of Philip’s should conceal some fresh folly.

  “You will be well satisfied with what I do, sir; that is all I can say,” Philip replied.

  And with a low bow, he too retired, leaving Monsieur de Mengis in a state of bewilderment.

  “My dear friend,” said Philip to his second, “you must oblige me by walking to the Arc de Triomphe, or will you still further prove your devotion to me, by taking an omnibus. I have a long distance to go and must make use of the cab.”

  “But, listen to me, sir,” said Albert, who was still holding Amaury’s pistol in his hand, “do you imagine that you are going off without a single shot being fired at you.”

  “Ah! that is true,” said Philippe, “I beg your pardon, sir, I was forgetting — ”

  “If you will kindly measure the distance at which we were — ”

  “That is quite unnecessary,” said Albert, remain where you are; only, do not move.”

  Philip stood straight as a rod, as Albert took aim.

  “But what are you going to do?” cried the solicitor and Monsieur de Mengis both at once, walking hurriedly towards Albert.

  But they had not taken four steps when a report rang out, and Philip’s hat rolled on the grass, pierced in exactly the same spot, where Philip’s shot had made a hole in Albert’s.

  “Now, Monsieur Auvray,” said the young man, with a laugh, “you may go about your business; we are quits.”

  Philip did not need to be told twice, he picked up his hat, jumped into the cab, said a few words to the coachman, and drove off in the direction of the Bois de Boulogne.

  Then Albert walked up to the solicitor, and offered him a cigar, and also a seat in his tilbury.

  The solicitor accepted both, and as the carriage was drawn up at the other end of the Avenue, they bowed politely to the Count, and went off arm in arm.

  “Upon my word,” said Monsieur de Mengis, as he now went back to his carriage, “I verily believe, God forgive me, that the rising generation is a generation of crack-brained lunatics.

  CHAPTER LIV.

  AN hour later, that is to say at about half-past ten o’clock, Amaury rode up to Monsieur d’Avrigny’s house; he had lost no time on the road, doubtless dreading, should he have too much time to think, lest his generous resolve might melt on the road.

  Antoinette’s carriage drove up at the same moment, and drew up at the entrance.

  On seeing that it was Amaury who offered her his hand to alight, the girl could not repress a cry of joy, and a vivid blush suffused her hitherto pale cheeks.

  “You, Amaury,” she cried; “is it really you? But, how pale you are, are you hurt?”

  “No! Antoinette, do not be uneasy,”

  said Amaury, “neither I, nor Philip — ”

  Antoinette did not allow him to finish his sentence.

  “But why are you so serious, so preoccupied, what does it all mean?”

  “I have something important to say to Monsieur d’Avrigny.”

  “Ah!” said Antoinette with a sigh, “and so have I.”

  They went up the steps in silence, and preceded by Joseph, entered the room where Monsieur d’Avrigny was waiting to receive them.

  Directly they were ushered into his presence, as the old man tenderly kissed Antoinette, and extended his hand to Amaury, they noticed such a terrible change in him — his face was so drawn, so unrecognisable — that, in spite of themselves, both started with surprise, and exchanged a look expressive of their secret fears. But in contrast to these two, who appeared so anxious and troubled at his altered looks, Monsieur d’Avrigny seemed calm and happy.

  They who were in the heyday of life were sad, he who was so near to death was cheerful.

  “So there you are, my dear children,” he said to his niece and to his ward, “I was expecting you with impatience; yes, now I am indeed glad to see you, and it is with feelings of unmixed pleasure that I devote this entire day to you. Believe me, you are very dear to me; for you are both young, good, and handsome. But what is the matter? Your faces are troubled, it seems to me; are you afraid that your old father is going to leave you?”

  “Ah! you will be spared to us for a long time yet, I trust,” cried Amaury, forgetting that he was addressing one who was different to other men. “But,” he added, “I wish to speak to you on an important subject, and it appears that Antoinette too has something serious to say to you.”

  “Well, my dear children, I am at your service,” Monsieur d’Avrigny replied, rousing himself from his usual abstraction and assuming an interested and attentive air. “Come and sit beside me, you Antoinette in this chair, and you, Amaury, take this seat. Now place your hands in mine; we three are comfortable now, are we not? The weather is glorious, the sky cloudless, and Madeleine’s peaceful resting-place lies there before us.”

  The eyes of the two young people turned to Madeleine’s grave, and that look seemed but to strengthen in each a fixed resolve; neither however spoke.

  “Well !” resumed Monsieur d’Avrigny, “you both have something to tell me; I am quite ready to listen to you now. Antoinette, you had best begin.”

  “But — ” the young girl murmured, with a confused look.

  “I understand, Antoinette,” said Amaury, rising quickly; “I beg your pardon, I will go into the next room.”

  The colour rose and again retreated from Antoinette’s cheeks, she stammered out a few words of excuse, but made no attempt to detain Amaury, who bowed and left the room, Monsieur d’Avrigny looking affectionately after him as he withdrew.

  “Now Antoinette,” said Monsieur d’Avrigny, turning to look at the young girl, “now, my dear child, we are alone, so tell me what it is you wish to say.”

  “My dear uncle,” said Antoinette, lowering her eyes whilst her voice trembled with emotion, “you have often impressed upon me that your greatest wish is to see me the wife of a man, whom I could respect, and who would love me. As you know, I have hesitated a long while; but experience proves to me that the position of a woman alone is often very difficult, very awkward, and so I have made my choice, dear uncle, neither a very brilliant nor a very ambitious one, but one which, at least assures me that I shall be well- loved, and one which will make my duties of a wife easy and pleasant. The man whom reason bids me decide upon, dear father, and who is well-known to you,” continued Antoinette, her voice trembling more and more as she went on (she turned her eyes on Madeleine’s grave, and gathered fresh strength from that look) “is M. Philippe Auvray.”

  The doctor had allowed Antoinette to speak without in anyway interrupting or encouraging her, he simply looked long and lovingly at her, his lips parted in a kindly smile.

  “M. Auvray! So Antoinette,” he said, after a moment’s silence, “amongst all the young men whom you know, your choice has fallen on M. Philippe Auvray.”

  “Yes! uncle,” Antoinette murmured.

  “But I thought, my child,” Monsieur d’Avrigny went on, “I thought you had told me twenty times at least that, so far as you knew, this young man was not serious in his attentions, you even laughed, if I remember rightly, at the poor lover’s wasted endeavours.”

  “Well! dear uncle, with your leave, my opinion has changed; this faithful affection, without hope of return, this lasting devotion, has deeply touched me, and I tell you again, — ” Antoinette’s voice faltered more and more as she spoke, “I am ready, dear uncle, to be his wife.”

  t “Very well, Antoinette,” said Monsieur d’Avrigny, and since your mind is made up — ”

  “Yes! father,” Antoinette replied, bursting into tears, “my mind is irrevocably made up.”

  “Will you, my child,” said Monsieur d’Avrigny, “go into the next room. It is now Amaury’s turn to speak with me, as he says he has something important to communicate. I shall send for you soon, and then we can have a chat.” And Monsieur d’Avrigny took the beautiful young face, all bathed in tears, between his hands and kissed it tenderly.

  CHAPTER LV.

  AS soon as she had disappeared into the adjoining room, he called loudly to Amaury, who at once came in.

  “Come my son,” said Monsieur d’Avrigny, “motioning him to the seat beside him which he had occupied a few moments before, now tell me what you may have to say.”

  “Sir,” said Amaury, trying to speak in a firm voice, although in spite of all his efforts, it was harsh and broken, “I am going to tell you in two words not what brings me to see you, for what has brought me to your side is really the wish to profit by the only day which you devote to us each month, but the subject which I am anxious to speak to you about — .”

  “Go on, my boy,” said Monsieur d’Avrigny, who detected in Amaury’s voice the same symptoms of agitation which had been so apparent in Antoinette’s; “speak on, I am listening attentively.”

  “Sir,” continued Amaury, making a fresh attempt to speak with indifference, “it was your wish, although I am so young a man, that I should act as a second guardian to Antoinette.”

  “Yes, because I felt you loved her as a brother.”

  “You also requested me to look about amongst my friends for some young man of birth and fortune who would be worthy of her.”

  “Quite true.”

  “Well, sir, having seriously considered what man would be most worthy of Antoinette, both as regards birth and fortune, I am come to request the hand of your niece for — Amaury stopped, almost choking.”

  “‘For whom?” asked Monsieur d’Avrigny, whilst Amaury strengthened himself in his resolve by looking fixedly into the cemetery.

  “For Viscount Raoul de Mengis,” said Amaury.

  “Very well,” replied Monsieur d’Avrigny; “the proposal is a serious one, and well worthy of consideration.”

  Then turning round he called to Antoinette.

  Antoinette opened the door nervously.

  “Come here my child,” said Monsieur d’Avrigny, holding out his hand to her, whilst with the other he motioned to Amaury, that he wished him to remain seated; “Come and sit down here.”

  “Now given me your hand, as Amaury has given me his; “Antoinette complied.

  Monsieur d’Avrigny looked at them both for some time, long and lovingly, then, still without speaking, he kissed them both on the forehead.

  “You are both noble-hearted,” he said, “both generous minded, and I am rejoiced at what is going to happen.”

  “But what is going to happen? “Antoinette asked in trembling tones.

  “The truth of the matter is, that Amaury loves you and you love Amaury.”

  An exclamation of surprise burst from them both and they attempted to rise.

  “Uncle,” cried Antoinette.

  “Sir,” exclaimed Amaury.

  “Let the father speak, the old man, now so near the grave,” Monsieur d’Avrigny went on, with a strange solemnity of manner; “do not interrupt me, but now that we three find ourselves together again, as we were nine months ago, immediately after Madeleine’s death, allow me to tell you the story of your hearts during the last nine months.

  “I have read what you have written, Amaury: I have listened to what you have said, Antoinette.

  “I have carefully watched and studied you in my solitude, and after passing through the troubled life which God had marked out for me, I have gained experience not only in diseases, which are pains of the body, but in things pertaining to the passions, which are the sufferings of the soul. Therefore, I tell you, my children, and this is the happiness on which I congratulate you, you love each other, and if you still have any doubts about it, I will very soon dispel them.”

  The two young people remained as if turned to stone.

  Monsieur d’Avrigny continued:

  “Amaury, you are a generous-minded fellow, with a loyal, noble heart.

  “After my daughter’s death, you earnestly wished to put an end to your life, and when you went away, you truly longed to die. Your first letters spoke of a strong distaste for life.

  “You only looked within yourself, never around you, but little by little outside things assumed an interest for you; the gift of admiration, of enthusiasm, which at twenty years is so deeply rooted in the human soul, began once again to stir and wake in your heart. At last you were wearied of this loneliness; dreams of the future began to revive in you. Yours is a very loving nature, and unknown to yourself, a craving for affection awoke in you, and as you are one of those with whom memory is all powerful, the first face which haunted your dreams, was that of a friend known from childhood.

  “And the voice of this friend was the only voice which reached you in your exile, and as the words which she sent were sweet and alluring, you were not able to withstand her, and overcome by loneliness, carried away by secret hopes, you returned to Paris, to the life from which, nine months ago, you thought you had severed yourself for ever.

  “There you sunned yourself in the presence of her who had become to you the whole world, and roused by jealousy, animated by the resistance which you imposed upon yourself, enlightened by some chance event, at a moment when you probably least expected it, the truth flashed across you. You realised, with dismay, the true state of your feelings, and appalled at your own weakness, convinced that, should you continue to struggle, you would but yield in the strife, you decided to take extreme measures, a desperate resolution, and came here to ask Antoinette’s hand in marriage for Viscount Raoul de Mengis.”

  “My hand for Raoul de Mengis?” exclaimed Antoinette.

  “Yes! for Raoul de Mengis, whom you knew she did not love, in the vague hope, perhaps, that should I propose this marriage to her, she might then acknowledge that you were the man she loved.”

  Amaury buried his face in his hands and groaned aloud.

  “Am I not right?” continued Monsieur d’Avrigny; “have I not correctly diagnosed your heart, analysed your feelings? I have. Well then! Amaury, you may feel justly proud, for you have acted like a noble fellow, like a loyal gentleman.”

  “Oh! my dear, dear father!” cried Amaury, “it is useless to try to conceal anything from you. Not a thing escapes you; and your watchful eye, like the eye of God, reads into the inmost recesses of the soul.”

  “For you, my Antoinette,” said Monsieur d’Avrigny, turning to the blushing girl, “for you it is quite another thing, you have loved Amaury ever since you knew him.”

  Antoinette started and hid her burning face against Monsieur d’Avrigny’s breast.

  “My dear child,” he went on, “why should you deny it? This hidden love was too pure, too unselfish, for you to need to blush for it.

  “Poor little girl, you have indeed suffered.

  “Slighted and misunderstood without cause, jealous, yet angry with yourself because of this jealousy, finding nothing but pain and remorse in the very thing that is most sacred in the world, — a maiden’s first love.

  “Ah! you have indeed suffered, and with no one to help you in your trouble, with no one in whom you could confide, with no one to sustain you in your weakness and to cry: ‘Take courage! you are fighting a gallant fight! ‘There was one, however, who was a witness of your brave silence — one who appreciated it. That one was your old uncle, whose eyes would often fill with tears as he saw your noble unselfishness; whose arms would often fall open to receive you, and close again with a sigh; and even when God took your rival (Antoinette moved uneasily), your sister to Himself,” Monsieur d’Avrigny continued, “you still tried to crush out all hope, as if it were a crime. All this time Amaury suffered; you watched his suffering with anguish, and could ‘not refrain from doing all in your power to console him, and though far away, you constituted yourself a Sister of Mercy to his sick soul. Then, you met again, and the struggle was renewed more sharply, more poignantly than ever; at last there came a day when you realized that he, too, loved you. And so, to resist this last temptation, to remain faithful, to the end, to your grand ideal of renunciation, of fidelity to the dead, you decided to sacrifice your life, bestow it on the first comer; you sought Philip in order to avoid Amaury, and without bringing happiness to the one, you struck a mortal blow to the other, all this without considering your own affections, which you felt had been sacrificed long ago.”

  “But, thank God,” resumed Monsieur d’Avrigny, looking from one to the other, “I am still here, to bring you together, to show you your own hearts, to save you both from a fatal mistake, to tell you, happy children that you are, ‘You love one another! You love one another! ‘“

  The doctor paused a moment, gazing alternately at Amaury on his right, and Antoinette on his left; both looked confused, and sat with bent heads, not venturing to look at him, nor at each other.

  A smile lit up Monsieur d’Avrigny’s face, and he went on speaking in a tone of fatherly kindness and solicitude —

  “And now you sit here before me, dear children, with bent heads and not a word to say, because you do not know whether I am blaming you, whether I think you faithless! Ah! it is precisely this super- sensitiveness which absolves you, this questioning which justifies you.