Meantime Count Linieres had decided to exercise the power of the dread lettres de cachet. In the France of that day, personal rights were unknown. Subject only to the King's will, no other warrant than the Prefect's signature was required to send anyone into exile or to life imprisonment. The means that Linieres now had in mind were often used to quell rebellious lovers. He would brand this inconvenient, presumptuous Henriette Girard as a fallen woman, imprison her at La Salpetriere, and then ship her as a convict to Louisiana. That would get rid of her, truly! In the meanwhile the Chevalier, if disobedient, could cool his heels in the prison tower of the royal fortress at Caen. After a while, he might indeed see reason and think better of marrying the Princesse de Acquitaine! He summoned the Chevalier. The autocratic Count brooked no words; he commanded marriage with the State heiress--or exile! His nephew refusing, the guards were summoned, the young man gave up his sword, and under their escort he was presently on his way to Caen prison. Then, summoning a detail of military police, the Count moved to carry out the other part of his plan. * * * * * "You are Mademoiselle Henriette Girard?" inquired the Countess kindly on entering the girl's lodgings. Henriette greeted the distinguished and aristocratic lady with due respect. Making her comfortable in a guest chair, she resumed her sewing and listened. "I am the aunt of the Chevalier Maurice de Vaudrey." The girl, startled, looked up from her work. "Marriage between you and the Chevalier is impossible." "I love him, Madame," replied Henriette, simply. "Then it is your duty to give him up, since it is the will of the King that he marry Princesse de Acquitaine--" Henriette paled. For an instant the blue eyes looked near-tigerish, with green and yellow lights. Yet she must save Maurice from the King's wrath. "If you will make this sacrifice," continued the Countess, "I shall not prove ungrateful with any reward that is in my power." "Oh, yes, there is!" replied Henriette earnestly. She showed the Countess her sampler, on which she was working the word-- LOUISE "Louise--that name is very dear to me," replied the Lady softly. She visioned a scene of long ago when an infant Louise had been snatched from her young arms--the arms of a mother deprived of her offspring. "She is my sister," resumed Henriette--"lost, wandering and alone, on the streets of Paris. Oh, help me find her, and I--I will do anything you say!" The poor creature sobbed in her double misery. She pointed to her own eyes in gesture to portray Louise's misfortune: "Blind--so helpless--it was just like taking care of a baby." She told the story of her abduction and the loss of her sister, then of Chevalier de Vaudrey's vain efforts and hers to trace her.