“Stop a moment, M. Ribaut,” he called. “There is only one thing which can release your niece from the duty of obedience to you. That is her marriage. You have lost your right to exact obedience in that.” He descended to Nanette’s side and took her hands. He smiled into her eyes, and her face brightened as she looked at him. “I repeat, Mademoiselle,” he said, “that your marriage is the only thing which can make you independent of your uncle. It seems a pity that all these preparations should go for naught--that these candies should burn uselessly. Perhaps there is some one else present whom you would be willing to marry. The curé has assured me that he will overlook any little irregularity in the proceedings.” His face was smiling and tender, all its ugliness vanished. I heard as in a dream. “Oh, yes,” cried Nanette. “There is some one, Monsieur,” and she turned and looked at me. For a moment I did not understand. “Me?” I stammered. “Me?” “Yes, you!” cried d’Argenson gayly. “Come, M. le Moyne, wake up!” A mist seemed to fall from before me, and I saw Nanette gazing at me with eyes wet with tears and lips quivering with tenderness. “My darling!” I cried. “My life!” and I stretched wide my arms to receive her. ENVOY SO the cottage at St. Cloud became a reality, after all, for with M. d’Argenson’s willing help we choked Nanette’s fortune from out her uncle’s hungry maw, nor did he dare make much resistance. More punishment for him we did not seek--we were too happy to think of vengeance. And here, too, came my sister--our sister, rather--the same sweet, strong, noble girl. The others dwell yet in the southland which they love; but, thank God, they no longer struggle hand to hand with want. We have visited them, Nanette and I, and how I joyed in showing her the places where my youth was spent--the river, the great wood, the little bed-room, whence I peeped out at my uncle’s ruffians! Then back again to our home, here, at St. Cloud. It is a pleasant place, nestling amid a grove of trees, with a vineyard at the right and the river gleaming in the distance. Sometimes, on summer afternoons, we set our table out of doors and dine with all this beauty close about us. And sometimes, too, our dearest friend puts the cares of his great office from him and comes alone to spend an hour with us. Need I say with what joy we welcome him? And I trust that in our love he finds some slight recompense for his great kindness to us. In one corner of the little burial ground of the Théatins there is a grave which Nanette and I visit often. We love to sit beside it and talk over the days of our meeting. And as I tell for the hundredth time the story of my escape from Mère Fouchon, my wife rises with brimming eyes and kisses the little white shaft which bears the single word “Ninon.” THE END TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.