“That I do not know, madam. She seemed well enough all day, though not in such high spirits as a bride should be. Toward evening she complained of a headache and a feeling of faintness; but I thought nothing of it, and helped her to dress for the bridal. Before it was over, the headache and faintness grew worse, and I gave her wine, and still suspected nothing. The last time I came in, she had grown so much worse, that notwithstanding her wedding dress, she had lain down on her bed, looking for all the world like a ghost, and told me she had the most dreadful burning pain in her chest. Then, madame, the horrid truth struck me--I tore down her dress, and there, sure enough, was the awful mark of the distemper. `You have the plague!' I shrieked; and then I fled down stairs and out of the house, like one crazy. O madame, madame! I shall never forget it--it was terrible! I shall never forget it! Poor, poor child; and the count does not know a word of it!” La Masque laughed--a sweet, clear, deriding laugh, “So the count does not know it, Prudence? Poor man! he will be in despair when he finds it out, won't he? Such an ardent and devoted lover as he was you know!” Prudence looked up a little puzzled. “Yes, madame, I think so. He seemed very fond of her; a great deal fonder than she ever was of him. The fact is, madame,” said Prudence, lowering her voice to a confidential stage whisper, “she never seemed fond of him at all, and wouldn't have been married, I think, if she could have helped it.” “Could have helped it? What do you mean, Prudence? Nobody made her, did they?” Prudence fidgeted, and looked rather uneasy. “Why, madame, she was not exactly forced, perhaps; but you know--you know you told me--” “Well?” said La Masque, coldly. “To do what I could,” cried Prudence, in a sort of desperation; “and I did it, madame, and harassed her about it night and day. And then the count was there, too, coaxing and entreating; and he was handsome and had such ways with him that no woman could resist, much less one so little used to gentlemen as Leoline. And so, Madame Masque, we kept at her till we got her to consent to it at last; but in her secret heart, I know she did not want to be married--at least to the count,” said Prudence, on serious afterthought. “Well, well; that has nothing to do with it. The question is, where is she to be found?” “Found!” echoed Prudence; “has she then been lost?” “Of coarse she has, you old simpleton! How could she help it, and she dead, with no one to look after her?” said La Masque, with something like a half laugh. “She was carried to the plague-pit in her bridal-robes, jewels and lace; and, when about to be thrown in, was discovered, like Moses is the bulrushes, to be all alive.” “Well,” whispered Prudence, breathlessly.