“Ah! kind good father, there is truth in what you say, but I would far rather be a garden violet or a simple wayside daisy like Antoinette, than one of these precious but tender plants. See how the wind ruffles her hair, how this lovely breeze must cool her brow, whilst mine is burning so, feel for yourself, dear father;” and Madeleine drew his hand up to her forehead.

  “Well! my dear child,” said her father, “it is just because your forehead is so hot, that I dread this cold air for you. When your day-dreams no longer cause your cheeks to flush, I will allow you to run about like Antoinette, with your hair floating in the breeze. Or rather, my dear Madeleine, if you no longer wish to be a hot-house plant but to live in the open-air, I will take you to Hyères, or Nice, or Naples, one or other of those three Arcadias where the golden apples grow, and there you may roam about at will.”

  “And — and — ” said Madeleine, looking up earnestly at her father, “he will come with us too?”

  “Yes! certainly, dear, since you cannot do without him.”

  “And you will not scold him again as you did yesterday, you naughty father?”

  “Of course not; you see that I am no longer angry, for I have written him to come to us as usual.”

  “And you have acted wisely, father, for if you prevent him from loving me, he will love Antoinette, and if he were to love Antoinette, I should die of grief.”

  “Come, never talk of dying, Madeleine,” said Monsieur d’Avrigny, as he tenderly pressed her hand, “for, though I know you only speak in jest, still your words remind me of an unsuspicious child playing with a sharp, poisoned weapon.”

  “But I assure you, father dear, I have no wish to die, I am far too happy for that. Besides are you not the most famous doctor in Paris? So you will not let your own daughter die.”

  Monsieur d’Avrigny sighed deeply.

  “Alas!” said he, “if I were possessed of that power, dear child, your mother would still be with you. But why are you wasting so much time in bed? It is now nearly ten o’clock, and Amaury will be here at eleven.”

  “Oh yes, father I know; but I will ask Antoinette to help me, and then I shall soon be ready. You know you always call me your lazy little girl.”

  “Yes!”

  “Yes! you see, father, only when I am in bed, do I feel perfectly well; as soon as I am up, I am always tired or suffering.”

  “Have you felt ill these last few days, then, Madeleine? Have you really been suffering without letting me know?”

  “No! father dear; you know I never have any actual pain, only at times such a feverish unrest; but I do not feel it now. Now you are beside me, and I am going to see Amaury again. Oh! I am happy, I am well.”

  “And see, here comes your dear Amaury!”

  “Where is he?”

  “In the garden with Antoinette! He must have mistaken the hour,” said Monsieur d’Avrigny, with a smile. “I wrote him to be here at eleven, but he must have read ten.”

  “In the garden with Antoinette!” cried Madeleine, sitting up quickly in bed.

  “Why yes! so he is — Father dear, will you call Antoinette to come at once, as I want to get up, and she will help me dress.”

  Monsieur d’Avrigny called to the young girl from the window.

  Amaury, who did not wish it known that he had arrived before the hour named, hid behind a clump of bushes, hoping no one had seen him.

  A moment later, Antoinette entered the room, and Monsieur d’Avrigny went away, leaving the two girls alone.

  In less than half-an-hour, it was Antoinette who was left alone in the room, whilst Monsieur d’Avrigny and Madeleine awaited Amaury in the small drawing-room in which the painful scene of the previous day had taken place.

  Soon the Comte de Léoville was formally announced, and Amaury appeared.

  Monsieur d’Avrigny went to meet him c with a smile; Amaury timidly held out his hand, which Monsieur d’Avrigny retained in his own, and leading him up to Madeleine, who was watching him with astonishment, said:

  “Madeleine, I present to you Amaury de Léoville, your future husband.”

  Then turning to the young man, he said:

  “This is Madeleine d’Avrigny, your future wife.”

  Madeleine gave a cry of joy, Amaury fell on his knees before father and daughter; but he started up suddenly, for he noticed that Madeleine staggered.

  Monsieur d’Avrigny had only just time to draw forward an armchair, into which the girl sank with a smile, in a half- fainting condition. All these sudden emotions shook this frail girl, and joy was almost as fatal to her as sorrow.

  When Madeleine had sufficiently recovered to open her eyes, she saw her lover at her feet, and felt her father pressing her to his heart.

  Amaury was kissing her hands, and Monsieur d’Avrigny showering on her his most loving pet names.

  Her first kiss was for her father, but her first glance for her lover.

  Even then both men were jealous.

  “You are my prisoner for the remainder of the day, my dear boy,” said Monsieur d’Avrigny, “and we three are going to spend it together, making plans and building castles in the air; that is, if you are willing to admit a cruel father into your confidence.”

  “Then, my dear father,” said Amaury, “for now I may always call you by that name, may I not? Then, the only reason for your coldness during the last few days was no other than that which I had already surmised, that is to say, my want of confidence in you.”

  “Yes! yes! my dear ward,” said Monsieur d’Avrigny with a smile; “yes, yes, that is all forgotten now! I will forgive your dissimulation, if you will forgive my ill-humour; and now, unnatural tyrant that I am, and ungrateful rebels that you are, let bygones be bygones.”

  Matters having reached this point, the next thing to be decided upon was the date of the wedding.

  At first Amaury was most impatient, and would hear of no delay; but eventually the certainty of his happiness made him more reasonable, and he listened quietly to Monsieur d’Avrigny’s arguments.

  Besides, Monsieur d’Avrigny was very firm.

  “Society,” he said, “does not like to be taken by surprise in these matters, and it is often apt to avenge itself by spreading abroad some slander. Moreover I want sufficient time in which to introduce you as my future son-in-law.”

  Amaury consented to this, stipulating only that it should be done as soon as possible. It was finally decided that the engagement should be announced in a week’s time, and the wedding take place in two months.

  All these arrangements were discussed in Madeleine’s presence, and although she made no comment, it was evident that not a word escaped her. The girl’s face was bright and charming in its half-blushing, half-embarrassed candour. Happiness suited her to perfection; her eyes strayed from her lover to her father, from her father to her lover, and she distributed her favours from one to the other with the finished manner of a born coquette.

  When all was satisfactorily arranged, Monsieur d’Avrigny rose, and signed to his future son-in-law to follow him; then turning to Madeleine, he said gaily, “And now, you spoilt child, mind that you are not ill, or you will have me to reckon with.”

  “Ah! you have cured me to-day, father dear,” cried the happy girl, “and I am now perfectly well for life. But where are you taking Amaury?”

  “Oh! I am very sorry, but I must have a private talk with him; however, you need not be uneasy, dear child, it is only to make arrangements for your future happiness that we leave you now. After the poetry of love, comes the prose of matrimony.”

  “Well, then, off with you,” said Madeleine, who understood what was the subject in hand.

  “Never fear, Madeleine, I shall not be away long,” said Amaury, taking advantage of the few steps which his guardian had already made towards the door, to stoop down and kiss her cheek tenderly.

  In fact, it only remained now to discuss the marriage settlement. Of course Monsieur d’Avrigny was well aware how much property Amaury possessed, since under his able management it had almost doubled in amount, but Amaury was quite ignorant as to what might be the fortune of his future father-in-law; as a matter of fact it almost equalled his own.

  Monsieur d’Avrigny’s marriage portion to his daughter was a million francs.

  Then, with this unexpected fortune almost within his grasp, did Amaury think that he had at last solved the reason of Monsieur d’Avrigny’s unavowed but determined opposition to his suit. Perhaps he had hoped to marry Madeleine to some one, if not more wealthy, yet in a higher station in life than himself; some one whose position was assured already rather than still to be made. As this seemed the only possible conclusion, Amaury did not question further.

  Besides, he soon dismissed from his mind all these retrospective thoughts. It is only those to whom the future is closed, who live the past over again; all to whom it is still open, dash fearlessly forward. About half-an-hour was spent in settling these business matters; then Monsieur d’Avrigny, taking pity on Amaury’s impatience, left him free to return to Madeleine.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  MADELEINE was in the garden, and Antoinette alone had remained in the drawing-room.

  On seeing the young man, she was about to leave the room; then, believing that were she to retire without speaking to him, she would seem to look coldly on his happiness, she stood still, and turning towards him with a bright smile, said:

  “Well! dear Amaury, you are very happy, are you not?”

  “Oh! yes, Antoinette dear, and though I obtained from you this morning some inkling of the truth, I was still far from suspecting anything like the reality.”

  Amaury took the young girl’s hand, and led her back to the chair from which she had just risen, and as she seated herself with a sigh, he said: “Come, what about yourself, when may I have the pleasure of congratulating you as well?”

  “Congratulate me, Amaury? What are you thinking about? Why should there ever be any occasion for you to congratulate me ‘“

  “Why, of course, on your probable engagement; it seems to me that a young and beautiful girl like you, of good family too, is not likely to remain an old maid.”

  “I, Amaury,” the girl answered. “Listen well to what I have to say. This is a solemn day for you, therefore a day which will always have a special place in your memory; I shall never marry!”

  There was something in the girl’s earnest and decided answer that startled Amaury.

  “Oh! what nonsense!” he exclaimed, trying to turn the matter into a jest, “tell that to another, who may perhaps believe you; but I, knowing the happy mortal who will make you change your mind — ”

  “I know whom you mean,” replied Antoinette, with a sad smile; “but you are mistaken, Amaury, he whom you refer to does not think of me in the least. No one wants a penniless orphan, and I would have nothing to do with anyone — .”

  “Without a fortune,” Amaury interrupted; “but you are wrong, Antoinette; to be the niece of Monsieur d’Avrigny and the sister of Madeleine is a fortune in itself. Besides you have a dowry of two hundred thousand francs, and nowadays that is treble the usual fortune of a French nobleman’s daughter.”

  “I know my uncle is a noble-hearted man, Amaury, and it needed not this additional proof of his generosity to convince me of it, but,” she added, “that is all the more reason that I should not be ungrateful to him. My uncle will soon be alone; therefore I shall continue to live with him, if he is willing to let me. After him, my future belongs to God.”

  Antoinette said this with such an air of full determination, Amaury felt that, for the present at least, he could offer no further objection, but he pressed her hand tenderly, for indeed he loved her as a sister.

  Antoinette withdrew her hand so quickly that Amaury turned to see what could be the cause of this sudden movement.

  Madeleine stood on the verandah watching them both; she was as pale as the white rose she had just gathered from the garden, and which, with a girl’s exquisite taste, she had placed in her hair.

  Her lover ran towards her, exclaiming: “Are you ill, my darling? In Heaven’s name, are you in pain, that you are so pale?”

  “No, Amaury,” she replied, “it is rather Antoinette who is ill, look at her.”

  “Yes,” he said, “I was just asking her the cause of her sadness. Do you know what it can be? “Then, lowering his voice, “she says she will never marry,” and he added in a whisper, “can she be in love?”

  “

  “Yes, surely, Amaury,” replied Madeleine, with a strange look, “I believe you have guessed right; Antoinette must be in love. But let us go to her, for see,” she added smiling, “our whispered conversation keeps her on the rack.”

  In truth Antoinette seemed to be very uncomfortable, and, notwithstanding all their entreaties, they could not prevail on her to resume her seat; she declared she had some writing to do, and retired to her own room.

  Madeleine breathed more freely when Antoinette had gone, and bright plans for the future were again talked over. There were to be frequent journeys to Italy, endless tête-à-têtes and loving words, always the same, yet ever new, and all this great happiness would be theirs within two short months. In the meanwhile they would see each other every day, and always be together as they were now.

  All too quickly the moments flew by, and it was evening ere Madeleine and Amaury were aware of it; for, to them, it seemed they had only been a few moments together. The dinner-bell rang, and Monsieur d’Avrigny and Antoinette smilingly entered, each by a different door.

  Once more was Amaury lying at Madeleine’s feet, but Monsieur d’Avrigny, instead of losing his temper as on the previous evening, motioned him to remain where he was. He looked at them steadfastly for a moment, noticing the pretty group they made, then, going up to them with a hand outstretched to each, he said:

  “My children! my dear, dear children!”

  Whether it were the result of self- restraint or her own bright temperament, Antoinette was full of charming gaiety and sparkling wit; an unprejudiced observer might however have doubted whether this gaiety were not somewhat forced.

  Madeleine and Amaury, lost in the natural selfishness of lovers, and completely absorbed in their own feelings, were utterly unable to concern themselves with what others might feel or think, but now and then Madeleine nudged Amaury to remind him that her father was present.

  Then at a word from her, the conversation became general, but only for a moment, as they soon appeared to forget that there was anyone in all the world but themselves; their self-absorption caused the poor old man to be doubly conscious of the sacrifice his children made in bestowing upon him a word, a look, or a caress.

  It was impossible that Monsieur d’Avrigny could long maintain sufficient control over himself, whilst Madeleine, with Amaury’s gracious consent, doled out to him his share of her filial affection; so, pleading fatigue from the previous evening, he retired at nine o’clock, leaving the young people in charge of Miss Brown.

  Before leaving the room, he went up to his daughter, took her hand and in doing so felt her pulse; then, his hitherto anxious face suddenly lighted up with a look of ineffable joy and gratitude.

  Her blood flowed smoothly and calmly; her pulse betrayed no agitation, whilst her beautiful eyes, so often feverishly bright, were now clear and sparkling with happiness.

  Turning to Amaury, he pressed him to his heart, murmuring:

  “Oh! if only you could save her!”

  With a glad happiness, almost equal to that of his children, he retired to his study, to record in his diary the various impressions of this eventful day of his life.

  A few minutes later, Antoinette in her turn, quietly retired, unperceived by the lovers, who thought her still in the room when, at eleven o’clock Miss Brown drew near, and reminded Madeleine that her father never allowed her to sit up beyond that hour.

  The young people then parted, looking forward to a like happy day on the morrow.

  Amaury returned home, the happiest of men.

  This had been to him one of those bright days of perfect happiness such as come to men but once in a lifetime; one of those rare days without a shadow or a cloud; a day on which the fleeting hours blend harmoniously together, each event as it passes forming a perfect whole, just as the details of a beautiful landscape melt into the far distance of the horizon.

  Not a ripple had disturbed the peace of this glorious day, not a thought of sadness marred the bright memories which it was destined to leave behind.

  Amaury therefore returned to his home bewildered, and almost afraid of his great happiness, vainly seeking from whence should come the first cloud that might darken his radiant sky.

  CHAPTER IX.

  DREAMS of a bright future succeeded to the blissful evening b we have just attempted to describe, and Amaury woke in a right frame of mind for the happy reception of his friend Philip, whom Germain, as soon as his master rang, announced was waiting to see him.

  Then he at once remembered that two days ago Philip had called, to ask, so he said, his advice, and that being at the time unable to interest himself in anyone’s affairs but his own, he had asked him to postpone his confidences to another day.

  With characteristic persistence Philip had now come to see whether his friend were more inclined to listen to him than he had been the day before yesterday.

  Amaury was in such high spirits that he would gladly have seen everyone as happy as himself; he therefore gave orders for Philip to be shown in at once, and welcomed him with a bright smile.

  Philip, on the contrary, came into the room with measured tread, and a remarkably grave look on his face; although it was barely nine o’clock in the morning, he was dressed entirely in black and wore white gloves.

  He remained standing until Germain had left the room; then, after assuring himself that the valet had really gone, he turned to Amaury, and said in a solemn voice:

  “Well, my dear Amaury, are you more in the humour to listen to me to-day than you were two days ago?”