Oh! clever abbe, who knew so well how to twitch his puppet-strings! It certainly was a delightful evening, and Gabrielle, with the pursy chevalier trotting by her side, flung open a casement and stepped forth upon a balcony. As she gazed across the shadowy river, she was too absorbed with the consideration of a riddle to remark the condition of her companion, who panted nervously. Was Clovis mad--victim of a monomania--or did she wrong him? Why should he lie to her, and to Pharamond? He had declared, and the abbe accepted the statement without cavil, that the magic tub had already produced miraculous cures. No doubt it is both ignorant and stupid to contemn what you cannot understand. Clovis was always saying so, and he was right. If the discovery was genuine, then, as he had said, how wonderful a boon wherewith to endow the province! It was quite true that the peasantry were a prey to rheumatic pains and aches. In her rides she often went among the poor distributing simple remedies, and had been dubbed by them the "White Chatelaine," in contradistinction to some of dark and unsavoury memory who had gone before. But then, an irruption of adepts. What sort of a creature was an adept? The idea had revolted her, she scarce knew why; and yet, was she not unreasonable? If the prophet or a selection from his following were to take up their quarters at Lorge, what then? There was room enough in the great building, and the abbe would doubtless make himself useful in seeing that they kept to themselves. Ah! But the cherished hope which had been the means of bringing the chatelaine to Lorge; the hope to which she clung with the tenacity of love. Surrounded by an army of dreamers more dreamy than himself, the half-recovered Clovis would drift away again, be farther than ever from her yearning arms, engrossed in his magical operations. How unsteady a seat is that between the horns of a dilemma. If she refused to countenance the tub and its attendant sprites, she might be withholding from the sick a saving and certain cure. If she encouraged the new theory and its satellites, instinct told her that she would be raising a wall between herself and her husband which she would never be able to scale. She was wicked and selfish to hesitate. The marquise felt with humble conviction the extent of her badness; but human nature at the best is rickety, and she was unlucky enough to adore her husband. At this point, as she stood on the balcony reflecting, with the red hot chevalier by her side, she shivered, for plaintive sounds were floating on the breeze. "This is intolerable!" she murmured. "If Clovis would only oblige me by sacrificing that dreadful 'cello!" "It does set one's teeth on edge," agreed the chevalier. "Because it contains a soul in torment," returned the marquise, pressing her fingers in her ears. "I can manage to endure other implements of music, but I cannot bear a 'cello."