exchanged a signal, and slipped away round an angle of the chateau.

"Who is it?" said Rose.

"It is some one who has a delicate mind."

"Clearly, and therefore not a notary."

"Rose, dear, might it not be some person who has done us some wrong, and
is perhaps penitent?"

"Certainly; one of our tenants, or creditors, you mean; but then, the
paper says 'a friend.' Stay, it says a debtor. Why a debtor? Down with
enigmas!"

"Rose, love," said Josephine, coaxingly, "think of some one that
might--since it is not the doctor, nor Monsieur Perrin, might it not
be--for after all, he would naturally be ashamed to appear before me."

"Before you? Who do you mean?" asked Rose nervously, catching a glimpse
now.

"He who once pretended to love me."

"Josephine, you love that man still."

"No, no. Spare me!"

"You love him just the same as ever. Oh, it is wonderful; it is
terrible; the power he has over you; over your judgment as well as your