Lucille appeared greatly relieved by this assurance. She stooped over her and kissed her; and it was not until her face was thus brought near that Julie could perceive how worn and wan with weeping it was. "I have been dreaming, then; yes, yes, I suspected as much--_dreaming_," she said; and, as she reached her own room, she muttered-- "Well, God be thanked, she did _not_ hear it. But what can it mean? What madness and crime can have conjured up these sounds? What can it mean but guilt, danger, and despair?" VII.--THE DEVIL'S COACH. It seemed to Julie that Lucille was moody and abstracted next morning. Sometimes for a few moments she talked and smiled as before, but this was fitfully, and with an effort. She appeared like one brooding over some wrong that had taken possession of her thoughts, or some dark and angry scheme which engrossed her imagination. She soon left Julie and retired to her own apartments. When Monsieur Le Prun returned, some time after noon, not finding his young wife in her usual chamber, he went up stairs to wish her good day in her own suite of rooms. He was surprised at the sullen and stormy countenance with which she greeted him. She had not yet ventured to rebel against his authority, although she had frequently hinted her remonstrances and wrongs. But there was now a darkness charged with thunder on her brow, and the fermier-general began seriously (in nautical phrase) to look out for squalls. "Good-day, my pretty wife." "Good-day, sir." "Are you well to-day?" "No." "Hey? that's a pity; what ails you, my charming little wife?" "Solitude." "Solitude! pooh, pooh! why, there is Julie." "Julie has her _young_ lover to think of." "And when you weary of her," he continued, resolved not to perceive the slight but malicious emphasis, "you have got your own sweet thoughts to retire upon." "My thoughts are ill company, sir." "Well, as it seems to me, the pretty child is out of temper to-day," he said, with evident chagrin. "Perhaps I am--it is natural--I should be a fool were I otherwise." "Par bleu! what new calamity is this?" he asked, with a smile and a shrug. "Nothing new, sir." "Well, what _old_ calamity?" The past night had wrought a change in Lucille; and, little as she had ever liked M. Le Prun, she now felt a positive hatred of him, and she answered with a gloomy sort of recklessness-- "Sir, I am a prisoner." "Tut, tut! pretty rogue." "Yes, a prisoner; _your_ prisoner." "A prisoner on parole, perhaps; but provided, pretty captive, you don't desert me, you may wander where you will." "Pshaw! that is nonsense," she said sharply. "Nonsense!" he repeated, testily; "it is no such thing, madame; you have the handsomest equipages in France. Pray, when did I refuse you carriages, or horses, or free egress from this place? par bleu! or lock the gates, madame? Treated as you are, how _can_ you call yourself a prisoner?"