“Bon jour, Dame Moret,” continued the Sergeant. “I shall take a walk across the fields to the old château; good day, and many thanks.” “You are heartily welcome, Monsieur le Sergeant,” returned the dame. “You know you will always find a bottle of good wine here; so bon jour;” and the gendarmes departed. CHAPTER XXVIII. On the day that Julian Arden landed from the Onyx, Lieutenant Thornton, Mademoiselle de Tourville, and her friend Julia Plessis having made arrangements for a day’s excursion, proceeded to visit a place long celebrated in that part of the country, and known as the Hermit’s Grotto. This hermitage was not more than a couple of miles from the Château Coulancourt, and was reached by traversing a road leading through a picturesque country. The tradition that rendered this grotto celebrated was that for nearly one hundred years it was the residence of a holy man, who had subsisted principally on the water from the well, that rose within the grotto, and said to possess peculiar properties. In fact, there is scarcely a rural village of France that has not its legend of a holy man, or hermit, dwelling in the neighbourhood; but one remaining in the same place a hundred years seemed marvellous; for, even allowing that he commenced his holy life at the age of twenty, the worthy recluse must have been of a very respectable age when he departed from earth, and a desire would have arisen in the minds of the young people to make a pilgrimage to such a hallowed spot had not Mademoiselle Plessis declared that the scenery in the vicinity of the grotto was exceedingly beautiful, and talked enthusiastically of the cascade, piles of curious rocks, and a spot like the Perte du Rhone, near Geneva, where the little river entirely disappeared, and then came sparkling and dashing out of the rocks, some hundred yards from where it had been lost to view. Monsieur Plessis had gone to Havre, for Madame de Coulancourt’s letter had not yet arrived, though many days after the expected time, and Jean Plessis became uneasy. Our hero was not, because he was fairly, irrevocably in love, a love that absorbed his whole thoughts and actions, and he no longer talked of making his escape. The glory of naval achievements, once his pride and only thought, faded like rose leaves, and were wafted away, as Cupid shook his tiny pinions over his victim, encircling him with his invisible but most secure meshes. Shall we attempt to probe the heart of the fascinating and lively Marie de Tourville? Had she become aware of her lover’s devotion? We only ask our fair readers, did they ever mistake a man’s love when declared by his eyes, his actions, by anything but words? Did they ever mistake that devotion for friendship?