no Florimond, it would be left for a harsh, war-worn old greybeard
such as he to awaken tenderness in the bosom of that child? The
tenderness of friendship perhaps - she had confessed to that; but
the tenderness of her sweet love must be won by a younger, comelier
man.

If love had indeed touched him at last, let him be worthy of it and
of her who inspired it. Let him strain every sinew in her service,
asking no guerdon; let him save the life of the man to whom she was
affianced; let him save her from the clutches of the Marquise de
Condillac and her beautiful, unscrupulous son.

He put his folly from him and-went on, seeking to hold his mind to
the planning of his to-morrow's journey and its business. He had
no means to know that at that very hour Valerie was on her knees by
her little white bed, in the Northern Tower of Condillac, praying
for the repose of the soul of Monsieur de Garnache - the bravest
gentleman, the noblest friend she had ever known. For she accounted
him dead, and she thought with horror of his body lying in the slime
under the cold waters of the moat beneath the window of her
antechamber. A change seemed to have come upon her. Her soul was
numb, her courage seemed dead, and little care had she in that hour
of what might betide her now.

Florimond was coming, she remembered: coming to wed her. Ah, well!
It mattered little, since Monsieur de Garnache was dead - as though
it could have mattered had he been living!

Three hours of his long striding brought Garnache at last to Voiron,
and the echo of his footsteps rang through the silent streets and