That the chevalier was an ardent admirer of Jacqueline I perceived but too plainly; yet I did not dread him much as a rival, especially as the Catholic Church will not--unless in very particular instances--permit the marriage of cousins, and they were both within the forbidden degrees. But I dreaded his discovering me--his probable revenge for the insult implied by my residence so near his cousin; and yet this chevalier was a handsome, brave, and gallant fellow. I was roused from my reverie by a soft hand that was laid caressingly on mine. I turned, and met the pretty face and dark eyes of Angelique. "Twice, monsieur," said she, "I thought our rogue of a chevalier had discovered you; what eyes he has!" "Tell me, Angelique: this chevalier, who was so anxious to have me knocked on the head when I first came here, does he--does he----" "What, kiss me occasionally? Of course, every one does so sometimes--that is, except you." "I can soon make amends for this unpardonable omission." "That will do; _one_ is enough, in that dress especially. Well?" "Does he love your mistress?" "He is her cousin. Of course he loves her." "The devil!" "But every one does." "Does she love him?" "Can _you_ ask me that?" said the Breton girl, turning on me with her black eyes flashing. I was silent, for I now knew that the prudent Angelique was completely the mistress of our dangerous secret. "Well has propinquity done its work!" thought I. I found the Countess Ninon very amusing (though fond of recurring with sorrowful recollections to her first love, a Scottish captain in the Irish Dragoons of Lord Clare, who had fallen in battle somewhere); and notwithstanding the little vanities incident to her years, sex, and country, her conversation was instructive. Thus, while attending her and her niece in their walks, &c., I listened with pleasure to her anecdotes of the court of Louis XIV., and even of that of Louis XIII., which she had gleaned from her mother. At night, when the perfumed wax-candles were lighted in her boudoir, and I was busy with my skeins of silk, while she and Angelique plied their needles on the embroidery for that Right Reverend Father, the Bishop of St. Malo, she would tell us many a strange old story of the Breton wars between Guy of Thouars and Philip Augustus; of the enchanted sea-ducks that were neither fish nor flesh, but grew between the planks of ships that sailed in Breton waters; of the toad-stones that were found in the mountains, and proved a sovereign remedy for all manner of poisons; of the terrors of the Black Forest of Hunandaye; of the buried cities of Is and Douarnenez; of the ghosts that shrieked in the ancient vaults that lie between Rieux and Redon, and the subterranean torrent of St. Aubyn du Cormier.