As for Isabel Valois, he has a darker plot than mere theft and forgery, for the future. The years to come will strengthen his possession and drown out all possible gossip. Natalie de Santos must hang dependent on his bounty. He will not arm her with weapons against himself. He knows she will not return to face him in California. His power there is too great. If she dares to marry any one, her hold on him is lost. She must lie to hide her past. Hardin smiles, for he counts upon a woman's vanity and love of luxury. The veteran lawyer sums up the situation to himself. She is powerless. She dares not talk. Time softens down all passions. When safe, he will give the child some funds, but very discreetly. And to bury the memory of Maxime Valois forever is his task. Broadening his political influence, Hardin moves on to public prominence. He knows well he can bribe or buy judge and jury, suppress facts, and use the golden hammer in his hands, to beat down any attack. Gold, blessed gold! The clattering stamps ring out merry music at Lagunitas as the months sweep by. CHAPTER XV. AN OLD PRIEST AND A YOUNG ARTIST.--THE CHANGELINGS. As a thoroughfare of all nations, nothing excels the matchless Louvre. Though the fatal year of 1870 summons the legions of France under the last of the Napoleons to defeat, Paris, queen of cities, has yet to see its days of fire and flame. The Prussians thunder at its gates. It is "l'annee terrible." Dissension and rapine within. The mad wolves of the Commune are yet to rage over the bloody paths of the German conqueror. Yet a ceaseless crowd of strangers, a polyglot procession of all ages and sexes, pours through these wonderful halls of art. In the sunny afternoons of the battle year, an old French priest wanders through these noble galleries. Pale and bowed, Francois Ribaut dreams away his waning hours among the priceless relics of the past. These are the hours of release from rosary and breviary. The ebb and flow of humanity, the labors of the copyists, the diverse types of passing human nature, all interest the padre. He has waited in vain for responses to his frequent letters to Judge Hardin. Perhaps the Judge is dead. Death's sickle swings unceasingly. The little heiress may have returned to her western native land. He waits and marvels. He finally sends a last letter through the clergy at Mission Dolores. To this he receives a response that they are told the young lady has returned to America and is being educated in the Eastern States. With a sigh Fran‡ois Ribaut abandons all hopes of seeing once more the child he had baptized, the orphaned daughter of his friend. She is now far from him. He feels assured he will never cross the wild Atlantic again. Worn and weary, waiting the approach of old age, he yet participates, with a true Frenchman's patriotism, in the sorrows of "l'annee terrible." Nothing brightens the future! Human nature itself seems giving way.