And when for the second time I spoke of my visit to the graveyard she asked me if I did not deem her daughter’s tombstone very mean. She would have desired a larger monument, a colonade, a broken vase, a weeping angel; at least something that might be seen from a distance and would speak of grief. “No, no,” interposed M. Mairieux, “a stone is enough.” My leave-taking was quite a ceremony. I was about to occupy quarters in the neighbourhood, at the hunting lodge of Sylve-Benite, where I was to find my baggage. I promised to return and renew my acquaintance with M. Cernay, who was to be duly informed of my proximity. Just as I was bestriding my machine, little Dilette again crossed the court on the run, her long hair floating upon the breeze like wings. With this vision before me I turned my back upon the chateau of the Maiden of the Wood. Was this in Savoy? In Dauphine? I have forgotten to say. But what does it matter? I recall to mind a ballad with the recurring refrain: Was it in Brittany? Was it in Ireland? Perhaps in the land of the King of Thule. If I am not more definite every one will think it was in Savoy! One evening about five o’clock as I came in from the chase, a hare in my game bag, a fine fatigue in my legs and my stomach empty down to my heels, I found an urchin awaiting me at Sylve. He was the bearer of a pressing letter from Mme. Mairieux, begging me to dine with her on the sudden and unannounced arrival of her son-in-law. Between Sylve Benite and the Maiden of the Wood there are two good leagues. In case of need one can cover three-quarters of the distance on the bicycle by a bad road, which shakes one to pieces, and I should greatly have preferred to be spared such a night march, and remain peacefully in my lair, where the soup was already simmering over the fire. But an inexplicable impulse of curiosity or vanity urged me to visit Raymond Cernay--the victor of Bethany. “Very well, I will go,” said I to the small messenger. “Go on ahead. I will change my clothes and overtake you with my machine.” He smiled with a knowing air, for he was riding an old nag which it might not be easy to distance. In fact, I did not see him again. When I descended the avenue the chateau with its cloister was half buried in obscurity, lighted at but a single window. I rang at the lodge: which on the other hand was resplendent with light. I had put on my most elegant hunting suit, but I regretted the lack of formality when I saw Mme. Mairieux in great pomp of toilette and her husband ill at ease in a frock coat which he must have exhumed with difficulty from the wardrobe in which it had been buried. I was beginning to dread M. Cernay’s dinner coat, when I was informed with no little embarrassment that he would not be of the party. “He begs you to excuse him,” explained Mme. Mairieux. “An indisposition. The long journey--” The steward, more sincere, came out with the truth: