“Achille, the pride that has enabled me to support you in affluence will not admit of your affluence to support me. It is you who have chosen the way to riches by marriage. Opposed to it at first, I yielded to your wishes, though I had offered to you many a more honourable career. I presented to you that detestable woman Mélanie to inform you of the girl’s movements and her friends. I disliked, I loathed the intrigue, but it was undertaken, and it must be accomplished, for my strength is giving way.” “Mélanie is a cleverer woman than you, Adelgonde. She has shown me a way to success that you would never have dreamt of.” “Indeed! I hope it is honourable.” “Honourable, inasmuch as it profits her as well as myself.” “What is it?” Bromley bent forward to listen, but the Count spoke in too low a tone. “Good heaven! Achille! Have you stooped to this?” cried the actress. “Come, no heroics, belle dame. I hear the music of the dance, and I go to pulverise my rival.” “Have we fallen as low as this?” murmured the actress. Bromley heard a window open, the retreating steps of the Count, and the chords of the distant music. Noiselessly he left the theatre, and hurried to the lawn. The Count had reached Constance about a minute before him. She was standing with her mother apart from the dance. No one was near the group as Bromley approached. “This is my dance, Miss Constance,” he observed, offering his arm. “Forgive me, Monsieur Bromley. It is mine.” “You must be mistaken, Count. You yourself heard the engagement.” “One word apart, Monsieur Bromley.” “Certainly.” The two retired to a grove adjacent. “You recollect the compact we made, my friend, the night of the ball at Conisbro’ House.” “I recollect the compact you proposed.” “My part of it is complete, I dare say, with your assistance. Rely on me as regards la petite belle-sœur la Florence. Mademoiselle Constance, with the consent of Miladi Cogues and her own, is my affianced bride.” “Indeed, Monsieur le Comte! till this moment I believed she was mine. You will pardon me in your turn, but for such a statement I must, under the circumstances, demand a little corroboration—especially as the waltz is already begun.” Taking the Count’s arm, he forced rather than persuaded him to the spot where Lady Coxe and her daughter were still standing. Constance was pale as death—Lady Coxe a deep magenta. “Lady Coxe, the Count tells me I may congratulate you on having secured him as a son-in-law. May I do so?” “’E ’as my full consent.” “And, Miss Constance, may I offer you my felicitations?” “Y—y——” The word was never completed, for Constance fell to the ground. As the Count hurried with the crowd to assist the swooning girl, a strong arm took his, and a firm voice whispered in her ear. “Your place is not here; it is with your sister in the theatre.” Rabelais turned towards the young man with the eyes of a frightened ape, and slunk away.