‘Art thou sure thou art not _fiancée_ to Monsieur Sandilands?’ whispered Armand, as he doffed his hat to me, and the look of perfect happiness upon his face as he said so, gave me the strangest joy my life had ever known. [Illustration: [Fleuron]] CHAPTER IX. THE DEATH-BLOW. I had been hugging this dear delicious secret to my breast for the last three days; going apart at intervals to gaze upon it and assure myself that it was mine; and quite unable to believe in so much joy after the hopeless desolation of the last few months when that happened, which any one with discernment must have foreseen long ago, _petite_ Ange succumbed to the illness which had been hanging over her for weeks past. It was one morning when she had left the room as usual, _en route_ to her convent, and Mr. Lovett had set off on a round of what he called his parochial duties, that Tessie and I were startled by the sound of a loud clamour and confusion arising from the courtyard. ‘Good gracious!’ I exclaimed, as it struck my ears; ‘what on earth is that?’ Tessie, who had turned as white as a sheet, would have detained me in the little _salle_, but I broke from her grasp, and rushing into the kitchen, looked through the open window. There I saw assembled in the court a group of about a dozen men and women, amongst whom I immediately distinguished the figures of Madame Marmoret, the Mère Fromard, and Jean Marat, who were all surrounding my reverend guardian and preventing his egress from his own domains. They had evidently waited to waylay him on his leaving the house, and were screeching or howling, according to their various sexes, as they made their fierce demands upon him for justice. Mutiny was strongly marked on every countenance, and they pressed upon the old man as though they would lay violent hands upon him. Of course I guessed the reason of the uproar. It was the old story; they wanted their money, and he had none to give them! I glanced from the crowd towards my guardian, and for the first time I pitied him. He looked so pale and crestfallen as he leaned against the courtyard wall, fending off his creditors with the stick on which he supported himself. It was a sickening and humiliating spectacle, and I thanked Heaven in that moment that no blood of his ran in my veins. ‘Where are the twelve francs you owe me, monsieur?’ shouted Marat the cobbler. ‘I tell you I must have them. My wife is ill in bed, and requires broth and white bread to get up her strength again. Do you think I am going to let her want for lack of that which is my own? Hand them out, I say, for I will have them.’