her great brown eyes, which were always large but looked bigger than
ever now that they had not been closed since the baby left, wandered
about the château, looking like a picture of despair.

This lasted for nearly a week, and then came a telegram from the agent
to say the Hirondelle was lost in a fog off the east coast of England
with all hands drowned. The baron was alone when the telegram was handed
to him, and the news was such a shock to him that he read the message
over again and again before the words, though they were burnt indelibly
into his brain, conveyed their full meaning to his mind. Slowly he
grasped the terrible truth; poor Léon, the life of the house, wild,
handsome Léon was drowned, and his own poor innocent baby as well,
drowned, and by his fault. He was little better than a murderer, he
thought, in the first outburst of his grief, and he must tell Mathilde,
and perhaps kill her too. How should he ever have the courage to do
this? Strange to say, though perhaps, after all, it was not strange, the
baron was far more cut up at the sad fate of his little girl, whom, a
few days ago, he had been so anxious to get rid of, for a while, at
least, than he was at the news of poor Léon's death. So much hung on the
baby; Mathilde's life might almost be said to depend upon its recovery,
and now he must go and strike the blow which would perhaps kill her.
Père Yvon was indeed right; his jealousy was truly bringing a terrible
punishment in its train, and the baron buried his face in his hands, and
sobs of bitterest grief shook his whole frame. At last, rousing himself,
he went to the door of the study where the chaplain was engaged teaching
the younger boys, and beckoned him out. Père Yvon saw at a glance by the
baron's pale, scared face, as well as by the telegram he held in his
hand, that something terrible had happened, and drawing Arnaud into the
nearest room, he asked eagerly what was the matter. The baron answered
by placing the telegram in his hands, and paced the room in a frenzy