Now whether the worst of certainties is better than suspense--whether my nerves of pain had been so exercised during the period preceding my trial that I had really become callous, as they say a man's back does after a certain number of strokes from the "cat"--certain it was that I knew the worst, and acquiesced in it with a surprised sense of actual relief, and found it in me to feel it not unbearable. Such, at least, was my mood that night. I made the most of it. It was almost happiness by comparison with what I had gone through. I remember eating with a heartiness that surprised me. I could have gone straight from my dinner to the gallows, and died with a light heart and a good grace--like a Sicilian drum-major. I resolved to write the whole true story to the Duchess of Towers, with an avowal of my long and hopeless adoration for her, and the expression of a hope that she would try to think of me only as her old playfellow, and as she had known me before this terrible disaster. And thinking of the letter I would write till very late, I fell asleep in my cell, with two warders to watch over me; and then--Another phase of my inner life began. * * * * * Without effort, without let or hindrance of any kind, I was at the avenue gate. The pink and white may, the lilacs and laburnums were in full bloom, the sun made golden paths everywhere. The warm air was full of fragrance, and alive with all the buzz and chirp of early summer. I was half crying with joy to reach the land of my true dreams again, to feel at home once more--_chez moi! chez moi!_ La Mere Francois sat peeling potatoes at the door of her _loge_; she was singing a little song about _cinq sous, sinq sous, pour monter notre menage._ I had forgotten it, but it all came back now. [Illustration: "CINQ SOUS, CINQ SOUS, POUR MONTER NOTRE MENAGE."] The facetious postman, Yverdon, went in at the gate of my old garden; the bell rang as he pushed it, and I followed him. Under the apple-tree, which was putting forth shoots of blossom in profusion, sat my mother and Monsieur le Major. My mother took the letter from the postman's hand as he said, "Pour Vous? Oh yes, Madame Pasquier, God sev ze Kveen!" and paid the postage. It was from Colonel Ibbetson, then in Ireland, and not yet a colonel. Medor lay snoring on the grass, and Gogo and Mimsey were looking at the pictures in the _musee des familles._ In a garden chair lolled Dr. Seraskier, apparently asleep, with his long porcelain pipe across his knees. Madame Seraskier, in a yellow nankeen gown with gigot sleeves, was cutting curl-papers out of the _Constitutionnel_. I gazed on them all with unutterable tenderness. I was gazing on them perhaps for the last time. I called out to them by name.