"M. d'Arcot!" murmured poor Therese, and stood rooted to the spot, the statue of terror and grief; for, after six days such as the last, to meet an old and previously unknown _fiancé_ with the cordiality requisite, was more than poor human nature could bear or achieve. The baron, who was considerably changed in person since we last had the pleasure of seeing him, having become stout and paunchy, abrupt and irritable in manner, now approached, leading, and indeed almost pulling forward a tall, thin, and soldier-like Chevalier of St. Louis, whose form and face seemed wasted by inward thought and care, by exposure to the burning sun of India and the toils of war, rather than by lapse of time; yet he seemed quite old, though in reality not much more than fifty years of age. His hair, which he wore unpowdered, was white as snow, and was simply tied behind by a black ribbon. He wore the undress uniform of a French Maréchal du Camp, and leaned a little on his cane as he walked. "Mademoiselle de Beauchatel--my daughter--M. le Comte d'Arcot," said the baron, introducing them, and kissing Therese. "M. le Comte is most welcome to Fontbrune," said Therese, presenting her trembling hand to the tall old soldier, who kissed it respectfully; and after a few polite commonplaces, muttered hurriedly, on the calmness of the evening, the beauty of the chateau, its gardens, the scenery, &c., she drew aside to wipe away her tears, and desire Nanon to conceal Munro or get him quietly away. "What think you of her?" asked the baron, covertly. "She is most lovely; but now, my dear Beauchatel, though I have come to visit you, pray forget your project of the marriage." "Forget the object nearest my heart!" exclaimed the impetuous baron. "To unite an old veteran, a man of a withered heart, to a blooming young girl--December to May--it is absurd, my dear baron!" replied the Maréchal du Camp, laughing. "Absurd--parbleu! do not say so." "I assure you it is." "When you know her, you will be charmed." "I do not doubt it," replied D'Arcot; "but oh! what is this that moves me? Her face seems more than familiar to me, and recals some old friend or relative." "Impossible, comte; you have been more than twenty years in India, and she is barely twenty-one." Therese came forward again, and the comte began to examine her features with a fixed and earnest gaze, which filled her timid heart with inexpressible fear and confusion. At that moment the baron's eye caught the red coat of poor Munro, who had withdrawn a little way back, and was irresolute whether to advance or retire on finding himself so suddenly _de trop_ where hitherto he had been so much at home. "Oh, _sacre bleu_!" exclaimed Beauchatel, drawing his sword in a sudden gust of fury and suspicion, as he rushed upon the stranger: "whom have we here?"