One long look passed between Paul and Lois--a look of mingled feeling on his side; of inquiry, of surprise, of displeasure on hers--one of those glances that serve to link two souls together, be it for good, be it for evil. It left the young girl trembling, perplexed, agitated, more than any words could have done. It told Paul Desfrayne that he had never loved till now, despite that one terrible caprice of fancy and flattered vanity. But the hopes, the desires, the incipient love he had not dared to cherish the last time he had seen this angelic creature, this beautiful, pure English girl, who seemed to have glided across his path to lead him from darkness and misery into light and happiness--these feelings he might now yield to without sin. The air seemed full of golden haze, and even the somber figure of Lucia Guiscardini could scarce dim the brightness of the day-dream that surrounded him. CHAPTER XXXI. LUCIA’S TEARS. Lucia Guiscardini had started by the night mail for Paris. The next morning was the one fixed for her marriage, arranged to take place as quietly as possible at the Russian embassy. Fatigued, nay, utterly exhausted, she slept heavily for some hours after her arrival at her apartments in the Rue Saint Honoré. When Finette came to arouse her, according to orders, she was lying like one in a stupor, and it was with the greatest difficulty the girl could wake her. “It is almost a pity not to let her sleep as long as she may,” thought the maid, as she stood by her, looking down at the flushed face and uneasy attitude of her slumbering mistress. Finette had no great reason to care much for the overbearing, capricious prima donna, but she could perceive that she was struggling against impending illness, and she felt sorry she should not be at her best on her wedding-day. “Madam!” said Finette. “Awake! It is nearly eight o’clock, and your bath is ready.” A shuddering sigh, and then Lucia relapsed into her lethargic state again, though she was evidently suffering from the visitation of some painful dream. “Madam!” again urged Finette. “It is your wedding-day. Rouse, then. It is a glorious day--the sunshine bright and golden, scarce a cloud in the blue sky.” She pressed the soft, rounded shoulder of her mistress, and shook her with a firm yet gentle hand. For madam had given imperative orders the preceding night that she must be awakened immediately after eight o’clock, if not before. The entire responsibility of this lay with Finette, for she had no other attendant with her. A stifled scream broke from the half-parched lips of the sleeper, and she sprang up, throwing her hands forward, as if to defend herself. “No--no--no!” she shrieked. “No! Ah-h! You shall not take me. I have not done it. Take your hands off----” “Madam, it is I--Finette. Do not be alarmed. Pray calm yourself. The people in the house will be frightened. You have been dreaming. It is your wedding-day.”