“Monseigneur, I have just posted the two sentinels on the rampart.” “That is to say it is eight o’clock, is it not, captain?” merrily answered the baron to the majordomo, tending his glass. “Yes, monseigneur, somewhat past eight.” “Ah, that!” replied the old gentleman, replacing his glass on the table, not without having emptied it. “I hope nothing has happened to Honorat.” “Father, why not send a messenger on horseback to Berrol at once?” said Reine, with keen interest. “You are right, my child; at any rate, we would feel assured: there is not much to fear, but at night the road through the morasses of Berrol is not safe.” “Whom shall I send for the chevalier, monseigneur?” said Laramée. The baron was about to reply when the Chevalier de Berrol appeared, preceded by a valet who carried a lamp. “Where in the devil do you come from, my son?” said the Baron des Anbiez, extending his hand to Honorat, whom he called son since he was to marry his daughter. “Did you meet the fairies in the quagmires of Berrol?” “No, my father, I was at the house of Seigneur de Saint-Yves, and then--” Suddenly he approached the young girl, and said, “Excuse me, I pray, Reine, for being late.” She extended her hand to him with charming grace, and said, with a penetrating, almost serious tone: “I am happy, very happy to see you, Honorât, for we were anxious.” There was in these few words, and in the look which accompanied them, such an expression of confidence, tenderness, and solicitude, that the chevalier started with delight. “Come, come, sit down to the table, and as you have made your peace with Reine, tell us what detained you at the house of Seigneur de Saint-Yves.” The chevalier handed his sword and cap to Laramée, and taking a seat by the side of the baron, replied: “The recorder of the admiralty of Toulon, who is making a tour of the province, accompanied by a scribe and two guards of the governor, has come by order of the latter to visit the castle of Seigneur de Saint-Yves.” “Manjour!” cried the impetuous baron, “I am sure that it concerns some insolent command! This marshal, murderer of our favourites, never means to give us another; and they say this recorder is the most arrant knave that ever announced a decree.” “Oh, father, control yourself,” said Reine. “You are right; Vitry does not deserve a generous anger. But it is hard, nevertheless, for the Provençal nobility to see such a man hold functions which, heretofore, have always been given to princes of the blood. But we live in strange times. Kings are asleep, cardinals reign, and bishops wear the cuirass and the belt. Do you think that is very canonical, abbé?” The good Mascarolus never liked to give a decided opinion, and he replied, humbly: