LITMIR.BIZ

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up the staircase and into his room, where he opened the precious pocket-book. He found in one pocket a broken coin and a man's name. This coin was evidently a sign of recognition, and the name was probably that of the man to whom Gaston was addressed, and who was called Captain la Jonquiere. The paper was oddly folded.

      "La Jonquiere," said Dubois; "we have our eyes on him already."

      He looked over the rest of the pocket-book – there was nothing.

      "It is little," said Dubois, "but it is enough."

      He folded a paper like the other, took the name, and rang the bell.

      Some one knocked; the door was fastened inside. "I forgot," said Dubois, opening it, and giving entrance to Monsieur Tapin.

      "What have you done with him?"

      "He is in the lower room, and watched."

      "Take back his cloak and coat to the place where he threw them; make your excuses, and set him free. Take care that everything is in his pockets, so that he may suspect nothing. Bring me my coat and cloak."

      Monsieur Tapin bowed low, and went to obey his orders.

      CHAPTER IX.

      THE VISIT

      All this passed, as we have said, in the lane under Helene's windows. She had heard the noise; and, as among the voices she thought she distinguished that of the chevalier, she ran anxiously to the window, when, at the same moment, Madame Desroches appeared.

      She came to beg Helene to go into the drawing-room, as the visitor had arrived.

      Helene started, and nearly fell; her voice failed her, and she followed, silent and trembling.

      The room into which Madame Desroches led her was without any light, except what was thrown on the carpet by the last remains of a fire. Madame Desroches threw some water over the flame, and left the room entirely dark.

      Begging Helene to have no fear, Madame Desroches withdrew. The instant after, Helene heard a voice behind the fourth door, which had not yet opened.

      She started at the sound, and involuntarily made a few steps toward the door.

      "Is she ready?" said the voice.

      "Yes, monseigneur," was the reply.

      "Monseigneur!" murmured Helene; "who is coming, then?"

      "Is she alone?"

      "Yes, monseigneur."

      "Is she aware of my arrival?"

      "Yes, monseigneur."

      "We shall not be interrupted?"

      "Monseigneur may rely upon me."

      "And no light?"

      "None whatever."

      The steps approached, then stopped.

      "Speak frankly, Madame Desroches," said the voice. "Is she as pretty as they said?"

      "More beautiful than your highness can imagine."

      "Your highness! who can he be?" thought Helene, much agitated.

      At this moment the door creaked on its hinges and a heavy step approached.

      "Mademoiselle," said the voice, "I beg you to receive and hear me."

      "I am here," said Helene, faintly.

      "Are you frightened?"

      "I confess it, mon – Shall I say 'monsieur' or 'monseigneur'?"

      "Say 'my friend.'"

      At this moment her hand touched that of the unknown.

      "Madame Desroches, are you there?" asked Helene, drawing back.

      "Madame Desroches," said the voice, "tell mademoiselle that she is as safe as in a temple before God."

      "Ah! monseigneur, I am at your feet, pardon me."

      "Rise, my child, and seat yourself there. Madame Desroches, close all the doors; and now," continued he, "give me your hand, I beg."

      Helene's hand again met that of the stranger, and this time it was not withdrawn.

      "He seems to tremble also," murmured she.

      "Tell me are you afraid, dear child?"

      "No," replied Helene; "but when your hand clasps mine, a strange thrill passes through me."

      "Speak to me, Helene," said the unknown, with an expression of tenderness. "I know already that you are beautiful, but this is the first time I have heard your voice. Speak – I am listening."

      "But have you seen me, then?" asked Helene.

      "Do you remember that two years ago the abbess had your portrait taken?"

      "Yes, I remember – an artist came expressly from Paris."

      "It was I who sent him."

      "And was the portrait for you?"

      "It is here," said the unknown, taking from his pocket a miniature, which Helene could feel, though she could not see it.

      "But what interest could you have in the portrait of a poor orphan?"

      "Helene, I am your father's friend."

      "My father! Is he alive?"

      "Yes."

      "Shall I ever see him?"

      "Perhaps."

      "Oh!" said Helene, pressing the stranger's hand, "I bless you for bringing me this news."

      "Dear child!" said he.

      "But if he be alive," said Helene, "why has he not sought out his child?"

      "He had news of you every month; and though at a distance, watched over you."

      "And yet," said Helene, reproachfully, "he has not seen me for sixteen years."

      "Believe me, none but the most important reasons would have induced him to deprive himself of this pleasure."

      "I believe you, monsieur; it is not for me to accuse my father."

      "No; it is for you to pardon him if he accuses himself."

      "To pardon him!" cried Helene.

      "Yes; and this pardon, which he cannot ask for himself, I ask in his name."

      "Monsieur," said Helene, "I do not understand you.'"

      "Listen, then, and give me back your hand."

      "Here it is."

      "Your father was an officer in the king's service; at the battle of Nerwinden, where he charged at the head of the king's household troops, one of his followers, called M. de Chaverny, fell near him, pierced by a ball. Your father wished to assist him, but the wound was mortal, and the wounded man, who knew that it was so, said, 'Think not of me, but of my child.' Your father pressed his hand as a promise, and the man fell back and died, as though he only waited this assurance to close his eyes. You are listening, are you not, Helene?"

      "Oh! need you ask such a question?" said the young girl.

      "At the end of the campaign, your father's first care was for the little orphan. She was a charming child, of from ten to twelve years, who promised to be as beautiful as you are. The death of M. de Chaverny, her father, left her without support or fortune; your father placed her at the convent of the Faubourg Saint Antoine, and announced that at a proper age he should give her a dowry."

      "I thank God," cried Helene, "for having made me the child of a man who so nobly kept his promise."

      "Wait, Helene," said the unknown, "for now comes the time when your father will not receive your praises."

      Helene was silent.

      The unknown continued: "Your father, indeed, watched over the orphan till her eighteenth year. She was an adorable young girl, and his visits to the convent became longer and more frequent than they should have been: your father began to love his protegée. At first he was frightened at his own love, for he remembered his promise to her dying father. He begged the superior to look

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