With a timid and shrinking heart I walked beside the abbé, across the open terrace, towards the large gate, which with its bronzed and gilded tracery was already shining in the rich sunlight. “A fine-looking fellow, that dragoon yonder; he 's deco' rated, I see.” “Yes; an old hussar of the Garde.” “What 's he called?” “Pierre Dulong; a name well known in his troop.” “Halte-la!” cried the soldier, as we approached. “Your officer,” said I. “The word?” “Arcole.” “Pass, 'Arcole;' and good-morrow.” “Adieu, Lieutenant; adieu, Pierre,” said the abbé, as he waved his hand and passed out. I stood for a minute or two uncertain of purpose; why, I know not. The tone of the last few words seemed uttered in something like a sneer. “What folly, though!” said I to myself. “D'Ervan is a strange fellow, and it is his way.” “We shall meet soon, Abbé,” I cried out, as he was turning the corner of the park wall. “Yes, yes, rely on it; we shall meet,--and soon.” He kept his word. CHAPTER XXIX. LA ROSE OF PROVENCE. The one thought that dwelt in my mind the entire day was that Marie de Rochfort was Charles de Meudon's sister. The fact once known, seemed to explain that secret power she exercised over my hopes and longings. The spell her presence threw around ever as she passed me in the park; that strange influence with which the few words I had heard her speak still remained fast rooted in my memory,--all these did I attribute to the hold her name had taken of my heart as I sat night after night listening to her brother's stories. And then, why had I not guessed it earlier? why had I not perceived the striking resemblance which it now seemed impossible to overlook? The dark eye, beaming beneath a brow squarely chiselled like an antique cameo; the straight nose, and short, up-turned lip, where a half-saucy look seemed struggling with a sweet smile; and then the voice,--was it not his own rich. Southern accent, tempered by her softer nature? Yes; I should have known her. In reflections like these I made my round of duty, my whole heart wrapped up in this discovery. I never thought of De Beauvais, or his letter. It seemed to me as though I had known her long and intimately. She was not the Rose de Provence of the Court, the admired of the Tuileries, the worshipped belle of Versailles; but Marie de Meudon, the sister of one who loved me as a brother.