trash who do not deserve a look. Just see if we are not to go on again, Philip."
Subdued by his daughter's serenity, the baron was quiet. Crushed by such scorn, Gilbert lowered his head. Something ran through his heart much like hatred. He would have preferred Philip Taverney's sword or even a cut of his whip. He came near swooning.
Luckily the speechmaking was over and the procession moved forward once more. Andrea was carried on, and faded as in a dream.
Gilbert thought he was alone in his grief, believing that he could never support the weight of such misfortune. But a hand was laid on his shoulder.
Turning, he saw Philip, who came smiling toward him, having dismounted and given his steed to his orderly to hold.
"I should like to hear what has happened," he said, "and how my poor Gilbert has come to Paris?"
This frank and cordial greeting touched the young man.
"What was I to do on the old place?" he asked, with a sigh, torn from his wild stoicism. "I should have died of hunger, ignorance and despair."
Philip started, for his impartial mind, like Andrea's, was struck by the painful loneliness in which the youth was left.
"But do you imagine that you can succeed in Paris, a poor boy, without resources and protectors?"
"I do. The man who can work rarely dies of want, where so many want to live without working."
The hearer started at this reply; previously he had regarded him as a dependent of no importance.
"I earn my daily bread, Captain Philip, and that is a great gain for one who was blamed for eating bread which he did nothing for."
"I hope you are not referring to what you had at Taverney, for your father and mother were good tenants and you were often useful."
"I only did my duty."
"Mark me, Gilbert," continued the young gentleman. "You know I always liked you. I looked upon you differently to others. The future will show whether I was right or wrong. To me your standing aloof was fastidiousness; your plainspokenness I called straightforward."
"Thanks," said the young man, breathing delightedly.
"It follows that I wish you well. Young like you and unhappy as I was situated, I thus understood you. Fortune has smiled upon me. Let me help you in anticipation of the lady on the wheel smiling on you likewise."
"I thank you."
"Do you blush to take my help, when all men are brothers?"
Gilbert fastened his intelligent eyes on the speaker's noble features, astonished at hearing the language from those lips.
"Such is the talk of the new generation," said he; "opinions shared by the dauphin himself. Do not be proud with me, but take what you may return me another day. Who knows but that you may be a great financier or statesman——"
"Or doctor-surgeon," said Gilbert.
"Just as you please. Here is my purse; take half."
"I thank you, but I need nothing," replied the unconquerable young man, softened by Philip's admirable brotherly love; "but be sure that I am more grateful to you than if I had accepted your offer."
He mingled with the mob, leaving Philip stupefied for several seconds, unable to credit sight and hearing. Seeing Gilbert did not reappear, he mounted his horse and regained his place.
Chapter XXXI.
The Magician's Wife.
All the rumbling of the coaches, the booming of the bells swinging to the full extent, the rolling of the drums, all the majesty of the society the Princess Louise had discarded in order to live in the nunnery, glided over her soul and died away at the base of her cell wall, like the useless tide. She had refused to return to the court, and while her sisterhood were still agitated by the royal visit, she alone did not quiver when the heavy door banged and shut out the world from her solitude.
She summoned her treasurer to her.
"During these two days of frivolous uproar," she inquired, "have the poor been visited, the sick attended, and those soldiers on guard given bread and wine!"
"Nobody has wanted in this house."
Suddenly the kick of a horse was heard against the woodwork of the stables.
"What is that? Has any courtier remained?"
"Only his eminence the Cardinal de Rohan; that is the horse of the Italian lady who came here yesterday to crave hospitality of your highness."
"True; I remember. Where is she?"
"In her room, or in the church. She refuses all food save bread, and prayed in the chapel all through the night."
"Some very guilty person, no doubt," said the lady superior, frowning.
"I know not, for she speaks to no one."
"What is she like?"
"Handsome, but proud, along with tenderness."
"How did she act during the royal ceremony?"
"She peeped out of her window, hiding in the curtains, and examined everybody as though she feared to see an enemy."
"Some member of the class which I have reigned over. What is her name?"
"Lorenza Feliciani."
"I know of no person of that name, but show her in."
Princess Louise sat in an ancient oak chair, carved in the reign of Henri II. and used by nine Carmelite abbesses. Before this seat of justice many poor novices had quailed between spiritual and temporal power.
A moment following the treasurer returned, ushering in the foreigner whom we know; she wore a long veil. With the piercing eye of her race, Princess Louise studied Lorenza on her entering the closet; but her hostile feelings became sisterly and benevolent on seeing so much grace and humility in the visitor, so much sublime beauty, and, in short, so much innocence in the large black eyes wet with tears.
The princess prevented her dropping on her knees.
"Draw near and speak," said she. "Are you called Lorenza Feliciani?"
"Yes, lady."
"You want to confide a secret to me?"
"I am dying with the desire."
"But why do you not go to the penitential chamber? I have no power but to console; a priest can comfort and forgive." She spoke the last word hesitatingly.
"I need comfort alone; and to a woman alone can I entrust my confession. Will you listen patiently to my most strange story, to be told to you alone, for you are mighty, and I require the hand of heaven to defend me."
"Defend? Are you pursued and attacked?"
"Yes, indeed, my lady," said the fugitive, with unutterable fright.
"Reflect, madame, that this is a nunnery and not a castle," said the princess; "what agitates mankind enters here but to be extinguished; weapons to use against man are not here; it is the abode of God, not of might, repression and justice."
"The very thing I seek," answered Lorenza; "in the abode of God alone can I find a life of rest."
"But not of vengeance. If you want reprisal on your foes, apply to the magistrates."
"They can do nothing against the man whom I dread."
"Who can he be?" asked the lady superior, with secret and involuntary fright.
"Who?" said the Italian, approaching the princess-abbess under the sway of mysterious exaltation. "I am certain that he is one of those devils who war against