I stood, half turning my back to Madame, looking down into the valley--not caring to meet the quiet eyes that had looked straight into my heart long ago in the room called the boudoir of the house in the Rue des Palmiers, and had ever since read the thoughts and desires which I had hidden from the rest of the world. Madame knew, without any words of mine, that I also had one object in existence, and that the same as hers--namely, that Lucille's life should be a happy one. "There is no task so difficult," said Madame, half talking, as I thought, to herself, "unless it be undertaken by the one man who can do it without an effort--no task so difficult as that of making a woman happy. Even her mother cannot be sure of the wisdom of interference. I always remember some words of your friend, John Turner, 'When in doubt, do nothing,' and he is a wise man, I think." The Vicomtesse was an economist of words, and explained herself no further. We remained for some moments in silence, and it was she who at length broke it. "Thank you," she said, "for all your thought and care in verifying the details of the story you have told me." "I might have kept it from you, Madame," answered I, "and thus spared you some sorrow. Perhaps you had been happier in ignorance." "I think, my dear friend, I am better knowing it. Shall we tell Lucille?" I turned and looked at Madame, whose manner bespoke my attention. There was more in the words than a single question--indeed, I thought there were many questions. "That shall be as you decide." "I ask your opinion, mon ami?" "I am not in favour of keeping any secrets from Mademoiselle." For a time Madame seemed lost in thought. "If you go to the chateau," she said at length, taking up her lace-work as she spoke, "you will find Lucille either in the garden or the chapel, where she daily tends the flowers. Tell her anything--you please." I left Madame and walked slowly across the garden. Lucille was not among the gay flower-borders. I passed by the old sun-dial and into the shade of the trees that stood by the moat, where the frogs chattered incessantly in the cool shadows. I never hear the sound now but something stirs in my breast, which is not regret nor yet entire happiness, but that strange blending of the two which is far above the mere earthly understanding of the latter state. In the shadow of the cypress trees I approached the chapel quietly, of which the door and windows were alike thrown open. Standing in the cool shadow of the porch I saw that Lucille was not busy with the flowers, but having completed her task, knelt for a moment before the altar, raising to heaven a face surely as pure as that of any angel there. I sat down in the porch to wait. Presently Lucille rose from her knees and turning came towards me. I thought, as I always did on seeing her after an absence short or long, that I had never really loved her until that moment.