“The times have changed very much,” said Chesnel, shaking his head. Victurnien had thinned his last thin, white hairs. “Our Martyr-King did not die like the English King Charles.” That thought soothed Mlle. Armande’s splendid indignation; a shudder ran through her; but still she did not realize what Chesnel meant. “To-morrow we will decide what we must do,” she said; “it needs thought. At the worst, we have our lands.” “Yes,” said Chesnel. “You and M. le Marquis own the estate conjointly; but the larger part of it is yours. You can raise money upon it without saying a word to him.” The players at whist, reversis, boston, and backgammon noticed that evening that Mlle. Armande’s features, usually so serene and pure, showed signs of agitation. “That poor heroic child!” said the old Marquise de Casteran, “she must be suffering still. A woman never knows what her sacrifices to her family may cost her.” Next day it was arranged with Chesnel that Mlle. Armande should go to Paris to snatch her nephew from perdition. If any one could carry off Victurnien, was it not the woman whose motherly heart yearned over him? Mlle. Armande made up her mind that she would go to the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse and tell her all. Still, some sort of pretext was necessary to explain the journey to the Marquis and the whole town. At some cost to her maidenly delicacy, Mlle. Armande allowed it to be thought that she was suffering from a complaint which called for a consultation of skilled and celebrated physicians. Goodness knows whether the town talked of this or no! But Mlle. Armande saw that something far more than her own reputation was at stake. She set out. Chesnel brought her his last bag of louis; she took it, without paying any attention to it, as she took her white capuchine and thread mittens. “Generous girl! What grace!” he said, as he put her into the carriage with her maid, a woman who looked like a gray sister.