Her wedding dress had been laid upon a little bed in the adjoining room. She went there on tip-toe as though afraid that someone might spy upon her while she touched the satin and laces with delighted fingers. Strong scents perfumed the room and the odour of blossoms. Claudine went and stood before a long mirror of the wardrobe and studied herself in many attitudes. She did not know whether she was really pretty. Justin, her fiancé, had paid her many compliments, and she tried to believe them. A greater source of encouragement was her figure--the fine rounded limbs, the pink and white of a young girl's skin. For an instant she remembered the ordeal of discovery which awaited her to-morrow; then with a light laugh, she returned to her bedroom. Other brides had suffered and survived--she took courage. The priest had told her to say many things in her prayers--good man, he said them in his--but they were clean gone from her head at this time. The girlish romance of an English wedding was not for her. No gifts of sweet and silent hours were hers. She knew very little of Justin--he, less of her. He had kissed her but twice, and then apologetically. Yet to-morrow she would be his wife. Stay, but was it to-morrow? She listened at the window and counted the church bells chiming the hour. Twelve o'clock. Her wedding was to-day. II The afternoon of the same day had found General d'Arny closeted with John Faber in a little room in the Avenue de l'Opéra. Here was the Paris agency of the great Charleston Company, and hither came d'Arny at his own suggestion. A bent old man, not lacking dignity in a common way--dignity had gone to the journalistic dogs that afternoon. He entered the office trembling with excitement; he could not speak for some minutes, and when he did so, his tones rolled like thunder. "It is finished," he said. "Read!" And he held out a paper with quivering fingers. Faber watched him with half-closed eyes. He was thinking of another day, when this man, a mere captain of the Chasseurs-à-Cheval then, had ridden down the Rue de Fleurus and commanded his men to hunt out the Communards. Some forty years ago, and no doubt the soldier had forgotten every hour of it. None the less, the sword of destiny was poised and would fall. "What shall I read?" Faber rejoined, after a little spell of waiting. He knew every word his friend Bertie Morris had cabled to America, but his face was void of knowledge. "Some talk of the deal," he ran on. "Well, I guess we expect it. Why should they keep quiet?" The soldier pulled himself together, and taking the paper from the outstretched hand, he began to turn the leaves quickly. "It is on page 3," he said. "Yes, that is it, if you would be good enough to read." The clock ticked in a silent room for some minutes. Faber read the article to the end without moving a muscle of his usually expressive face. A great business man is often a great actor. He was one.