“Eh! monsieur,” cried the unknown, again, “you left a bracelet in the hotel at Courville. Diable! a lady’s portrait; above all, that of Madame de Cossé. For the sake of that dear mamma, do not run away.” “I know that voice,” said St. Luc. “And then he speaks of my mother.” “It is Bussy!” “The Comte de Bussy, our friend,” and they reined up their horses. “Good morning, madame,” said Bussy, laughing, and giving her the bracelet. “Have you come from the king to arrest us?” “No, ma foi, I am not sufficiently his majesty’s friend for such a mission. No, I found your bracelet at the hotel, which showed me that you preceded me on my way.” “Then,” said St. Luc, “it is chance which brings you on our path.” “Chance, or rather Providence.” Every remaining shadow of suspicion vanished before the sincere smile and bright eyes of the handsome speaker. “Then you are traveling?” asked Jeanne. “I am.” “But not like us?” “Unhappily; no.” “I mean in disgrace. Where are you going?” “Towards Angers, and you?” “We also.” “Ah! I should envy your happiness if envy were not so vile.” “Eh! M. de Bussy, marry, and you will be as happy as we are,” said Jeanne; “it is so easy to be happy when you are loved.” “Ah! madame, everyone is not so fortunate as you.” “But you, the universal favorite.” “To be loved by everyone is as though you were loved by no one, madame.” “Well, let me marry you, and you will know the happiness you deny.” “I do not deny the happiness, only that it does not exist for me.” “Shall I marry you?” “If you marry me according to your taste, no; if according to mine, yes.” “Are you in love with a woman whom you cannot marry?” “Comte,” said Bussy, “beg your wife not to plunge dagger in my heart.” “Take care, Bussy; you will make me think it is with her you are in love.” “If it were so, you will confess, at least, that I am a lover not much to be feared.” “True,” said St. Luc, remembering how Bussy had brought him his wife. “But confess, your heart is occupied.” “I avow it.” “By a love, or by a caprice?” asked Jeanne. “By a passion, madame.” “I will cure you.” “I do not believe it.” “I will marry you.” “I doubt it.” “And I will make you as happy as you ought to be.” “Alas! madame, my only happiness now is to be unhappy.” “I am very determined.” “And I also.” “Well, will you accompany us?” “Where are you going?” “To the château of Méridor.” The blood mounted to the cheeks of Bussy, and then he grew so pale, that his secret would certainly have been betrayed, had not Jeanne been looking at her husband with a smile. Bussy therefore had time to recover himself, and said,-- “Where is that?” “It is the property of one of my best friends.” “One of your best friends, and--are they at home?” “Doubtless,” said Jeanne, who was completely ignorant of the events of the last two months; “but have you never heard of the Baron de Méridor, one of the richest noblemen in France, and of----” “Of what?”