"I mean till I was left here, abandoned in hostile France, thus crushing all the brilliant schemes I had formed for the future." "Enter the service of France. I have vast interest through my father, through my cousin Bourgneuf, and the Comte de Boisguiller. Who can say how high you may rise? We have still our Irish Brigade and the regiment of Royal Scots, and to be a Scotsman is still a passport to royal favour in France." "Was, Jacqueline; you should say it _was_. But that day has gone for ever, nor would such views suit me if it remained. I thank you, my beloved, but this can never be." A sound as of steps among the shrubbery close by made us pause, and then Jacqueline, after looking hastily round, asked-- "Is the chateau becoming so terrible to you?" "Ah! do not ask me that, at least in such a tone of pique. With you I should indeed be happy anywhere." "Should be--are you not?" "I _am_ happy." "Then whence this repining, Basil?" she asked, softly, perhaps reproachfully. "Understand me; it is the ever present question, where will the love I bear you--a love so deep and desperate--end? Would it not have been better that we had never known and never loved each other so?" "Why, Basil, why?" "You are the daughter of a peer of France, the Maréchal de Broglie; I--oh, Heaven! you know me but as an unfortunate gentleman--a poor private dragoon. I have not even an epaulette to boast of!" "Then I shall give you _two_," said Jacqueline, putting a white hand on each of my shoulders, and kissing me playfully on the check. "_Mon Dieu_, it is too much!" exclaimed a piercing voice; the hands of Jacqueline were torn away, and Madame de Bourgneuf, in all the rage of offended virtue, dignity, and nobility, stood with pallid face and flashing eyes before us. "So, so, this is Basile, the paysanne from the Morbihan! A man, a heretic, a foreigner, a soldier in the arms of my niece, of Mademoiselle de Broglie! Oh, what horror is this!" she almost screamed aloud. The rustling in the shrubbery is quite accounted for now, thought I. But I was wrong, for keener eyes might have detected the figure of a man--of Theophile Hautois--lurking like a panther near us. Jacqueline covered her eyes with one hand, and clung by the other to the side of the arbour. Indeed, had I not supported her she would have fallen, and now there ensued a long and most painful pause, during which I prayed the earth to open and swallow me. I was thunderstruck, and poor Jacqueline, overwhelmed by dismay and shame, cowered upon the seat with her sweet face hidden by her hands. Presence of mind alone could save us now. I waited until the first paroxysm of anger was past, and then addressed the too justly offended countess.