with us?" she inquired, to be settled on the point.
"What for? he is not a domestic and is not fitted for a Parisian establishment. The loungers about Taverney are like the birds which can pick up a living on their own ground; but in Paris a hanger-on would cost too much, and we cannot tolerate that. If you marry him, you must stay here. I give you an hour to decide between my household or your husband's. I detest these connubial details and will not have a married servant. In any case, here is the money; marry, and have it as dower; follow me, and it is your first two years' wages, in advance."
Nicole took the purse from her hand and kissed it.
The lady watched her go away and muttered: "She is happy, for she loves."
Nicole in five minutes was at the window of Gilbert's room, at the back of which he was turning over his things.
"I have come to tell you that my mistress wants me to go with her to Paris."
"Good!" said the young man.
"Unless I get married and settled here."
"Are you thinking still of that?" he asked, without any feeling.
"Particularly, since I am rich from my lady dowering me," and she showed the bright gold.
"A pretty sum," he said drily.
"That is not all. My lord is going to be rich. He will rebuild the castle, and the house will have to be guarded——"
"By the happy mate of Nicole," suggested Gilbert with irony, not sufficiently wrapped up not to wound the girl, though she contained herself. "I refuse the offer, for I am not going to bury myself here when Paris is open to me also. Paris is my stage, do you understand?"
"And mine, and I understand you. You may not regret me; but you will fear me, and blush to see to what you drive me. I longed to be an honest woman, but, when I was leaning over the verge, you repulsed me instead of pulling me back. I am slipping and I shall fall, and heaven will ask you to account for the loss. Farewell, Gilbert!"
The proud girl spun round without anger now, or impatience, having exhausted all her generosity of soul.
Gilbert quietly closed the window and resumed the mysterious business which Nicole's coming had interrupted.
She returned to her mistress with a deliberate air.
"I shall not marry," she said.
"But your great love?"
"It is not worth the kindness your ladyship has done me. I belong to you and shall ever so belong. I know the mistress which heaven gave me; but I might never know the master whom I give myself."
Andrea was touched by this display of emotion, which she was far from expecting in the maid. She was of course ignorant that Nicole was making her a pillow to fall back upon. She smiled to believe a human creature was better than she estimated.
"You are doing right," she said. "If bliss befalls me, you shall have your share. But did you settle with your sweetheart?"
"I told him that I would have no more to do with him."
She was restored to her former suspicions, and it was fated that the two should never understand each other—one with her diamond purity and the other with her tendency to evil.
Meanwhile, the baron had packed up his scanty valuables, and Labrie shouldered the half-empty trunk, containing them, to accompany his master out to where the corporal of guards was finishing the wine to the last drop.
This soldier gallant had remarked the fine waist and pretty limbs of Nicole, and he was prowling round the pool to see her again. He was drawn from his reverie by the baron calling for his carriage. Saluting him, he called in a ringing voice for the driver to come up the avenue. Labrie put the trunk on the rack behind with unspeakable pride and delight.
"I am going to ride in the royal coaches," he muttered.
"But up behind, my old boy," corrected Beausire, with a patronizing smile.
"Who is to keep Taverney if you take Labrie, father?" inquired Andrea.
"That lazy philosopher, Gilbert; with his gun he will have ample to eat, I warrant, for there is plenty of game at Taverney."
Andrea looked at Nicole, who laughed and added:
"He is a sly dog; he will not starve."
"Leave him a trifle," suggested Andrea.
"It will spoil him. He is bad enough now. If he wants anything we will send him help."
"He would not accept money, my lord."
"Your Gilbert must be pretty proud, then?"
"Thank heaven, he is no longer my Gilbert!"
"Deuse take Gilbert, whoever's property he is," said Taverney, to cut short what annoyed his selfishness. "The coach is stopping the way; get in, daughter."
Andrea gave the house a farewell glance and stepped into the vehicle. The baron installed himself next her; Labrie in his glorious livery and Nicole got upon the box, for the driver turned himself into a postillion and bestrode one of the horses.
"But the corporal?" queried the baron.
"I ride my charger," responded Beausire, ogling Nicole, who colored up with pleasure at having so soon replaced the rustic lad with a stylish cavalier.
Gilbert stood with his hat off at the gate, and, without seeming to see, looked on Andrea alone. She was bending out of the opposite window to watch the house to the last.
"Stop a bit," ordered Baron Taverney; "hark you, master idler," he said to Gilbert, "you ought to be a happy dog to be left by yourself, as suits a true philosopher, with nobody to bother you or upbraid you. Don't let the house catch afire while you brood, and take care of the watchdog. Go ahead, coachman!"
Gilbert slammed the gates, groaning for want of oil, and ran back to his little room, where he had his little bundle ready. It also contained his savings in a silver piece.
Mahon was howling when he came out, and straining at his chain.
"Am I not cast off like a dog? why should not a dog be cast off like a man? No, you shall at least be free to seek your livelihood like myself."
The liberated dog ran round the house, but finding all the doors closed, he bounded the ruins.
"Now we are going to see who fares the better—man or dog," said Gilbert. "Farewell, mansion where I have suffered and where all despised me! where bread was cast to me with the reproach that I was stealing it by making no return. Farewell—no, curses on you! My heart leaps with joy at no longer being jailed up in your walls. Forever be accursed, prison, hell, lair of tyrants!"
Chapter XIV.
The Outcast's Luck.
But in his long journey to Paris he had often to regret this abode which he had cursed. Sore, wearied, famished—for he had lost his coin—he fell in the dusty highway, but with clenched fists and eyes glaring with rage.
"Out of the way, there!" yelled a hoarse voice, amid cracking of a whip.
He did not hear, for his senses left him. He remained before the hoofs of the horses, drawing a postchaise up a side road between Vauclere and Thieblemont, which he had not perceived.
A scream pealed from inside the carriage, which the horses were whirling along like a feather on the gale. The postboy made a superhuman effort and managed to keep his horses from trampling on the boy, though one of the leaders gave him a kick.
"Good God!" screamed a woman again; "you have crushed the unhappy child."
The lady traveler got out, and the postillion alighted to lift Gilbert's body from under the wheel.
"What