Marie’s affection for George de Croisenois was much deeper than she had told her father, much deeper even than she had dared to confess to herself, and she resented this disposal of her with more obstinacy than any one knowing her gentle nature would have supposed her capable of; but M. de Puymandour was not the man to give up for an instant the object which he had sworn to attain. He never gave his daughter an instant’s peace, he argued, insisted, and bullied until, after three days’ contest, Marie gave her assent with a flood of tears. The word had scarcely passed her lips, before her father, without even thanking her for her terrible sacrifice, exclaimed in a voice of triumph: “I must take these tidings to Champdoce without a moment’s delay.” He started at once, and as he passed through the doorway said: “Good-by, my little duchess, good-by.” He was most desirous of seeing the Duke, for, on taking leave of him, the old nobleman had said, “You shall hear from me to-morrow;” but no letter had as yet reached him from Champdoce. This delay however, had suited M. de Puymandour’s plans, for it had enabled him to wring the consent from his daughter; but now that this had been done, he began to feel very anxious, and to fear that there might be some unforeseen hitch in the affair. When he reached Bevron, he saw Daumon talking earnestly with Francoise, the daughter of the Widow Rouleau. M. de Puymandour bowed graciously, and stopped to talk with the man, for he was just now seeking for popularity, as he was a candidate, and the elections would shortly take place; and, besides, he never failed to talk to persons who exercised any degree of influence, and he knew that Daumon was a most useful man in electioneering. “Good morning, Counsellor,” said he gayly. “What is the news to-day?” Daumon bowed profoundly. “Bad news, Count,” answered he. “I hear that the Duke de Champdoce is seriously indisposed.” “The Duke ill--impossible!” “This girl has just given me the information. Tell us all about it, Francoise.” “I heard to-day at the Chateau that the doctors had quite given him over.” “But what is the matter with him?” “I did not hear.” M. de Puymandour stood perfectly aghast. “It is always the way in this world,” Daumon philosophically said. “In the midst of life we are in death!” “Good morning, Counsellor,” said De Puymandour; “I must try and find out something more about this.” Breathless, and with his mind filled with anxiety, he hurried on. All the servants and laborers on the Champdoce estate were gathered together in a group, talking eagerly to each other, and as soon as M. de Puymandour appeared, one of the servants, disengaging himself from his fellows, came towards him. This was the Duke’s old, trustworthy servant. “Well?” exclaimed M. de Puymandour. “Oh, sir,” cried the old man, “this is too horrible; my poor master will certainly die.” “But I do not know what is the matter with him; no one has told me anything, in fact.”