Concealment had lately become an instinctive act with me, and I now sought refuge in the midst of some evergreen bushes, at a little distance from the road, from which I could view the cavalcade as it passed. On it came, the riders throwing back their shoulders as they filled their lungs with the bracing country air. The day was a mild one for the time of year, and the curtains of the litter were open. Inside sat a number of ladies. With a start, I recognized two of the faces. One was Mlle. d'Arency's; the other was the Queen-mother's. Mlle. d'Arency was narrating something, with a derisive smile, to Catherine, who listened with the slightest expression of amusement on her serene face. Catherine was going to try to persuade her son, the Duke of Anjou, to give up his insurrectionary designs and return to the court of his brother. I guessed this much, as I lay hidden in the bushes, and I heartily wished her failure. As for Mlle. d'Arency, I have no words for the bitterness of my thoughts regarding her. I grated my teeth together as I recalled how even circumstance itself had aided her. She could have had no assurance that in the combat planned by her I should kill De Noyard, or that he would not kill me, and yet what she had desired had occurred. When the troop had passed, I arose and started for La Tournoire. It seemed to me that a sufficient number of days had now passed to tire the patience of Barbemouche, and that I might now visit my chateau for the short time necessary. Nevertheless, it was with great caution that I approached the neighborhood in which all my life, until my departure for Paris, had been passed. At each bend of the road, I stopped and listened before going on. When I entered a piece of woods, I searched, with my eyes, each side of the road ahead, for a possible ambush. When I approached the top of a hill, it was with my ears on the alert for the sound of horsemen or of human feet, and, when I reached the crest, I found some spot where, lying on my stomach or crouching behind underbrush, I could survey the lowland ahead. And so, meeting no indication of peril, treading familiar and beloved ground, I at last reached the hill-top from which I would have my long-expected view of La Tournoire. It was just sunset; with beating heart, I hastened forward, risking something in my eagerness to look again upon the home of my fathers. I gazed down, ready to feast my eyes on the dear old tower, the peaceful garden, the-- And I saw only a smouldering pile of ruins, not one stone of my chateau left upon another, save a part of the stables, before which, heeding the desolation no more than crows are repelled by the sight of a dead body, sat M. Barbemouche and two of his men throwing dice. Only one tree was left in the garden, and from one of its limbs hung the body of a man, through which a sword was thrust. By the white hair of the head, I knew the body was that of old Michel.