sessed certain tastes in common with him, which were altogether wanting in Miss Biron. Besides, he had known the latter so long, that he had become almost as indifferent to her charms as if he had been her husband. Of course he would marry her if necessity required, for marriage would not interfere with his affection for the Roffiellis.

'Mon Dieu! what would these wives have? a husband and a lover in one-like the Song of Solomon and the Lamentations of Jeremiah bound together in one sober cover! It is droll, that is true.'

At present marriage was not necessary. The situation of affairs was equal to M. de Gaillefontaine's desires; it would be time to think seriously of improving his position when his present condition-with which he was content, oh, yes— was jeopardized. He was not apprehensive of change. René showed him no signs of flagging interest or of reactionary excitement. There was no reason why her excitement should not be sustained, or even increased. He and she could win yet greater victories in larger fields. What would be the triumph in this Italian city to those in London or Paris?

M. de Gaillefontaine was an eagle of ambition, and could look into the brightest sun without blinking. Eagles cannot blush.

He recognised the possibility of Rene's preferring celibacy even to union with him, in which case any intimation of his desire to make her his wife would necessitate a separation which was undesirable. In these days he did what he liked, and held the purse. René trusted implicitly the friend to whom she owed her fortune, and made no close inquiries into the particulars of his expenditure. He had a little banking account of his own, of which he deemed it inadvisable to

inform Miss Biron; only in the event of her showing a desire to devote her fortunes to one man, he would step forward and reveal his feelings. Yet awhile there Iwas no evidence of such a desire in Rene's behaviour; nor was there likely to be whilst her excitement continued, and each day brought men to her side as rich and as poor as those of yesterday. In a multitude there is safety. Why should she fix her attention upon one star, singling it from a constellation which numbered scores, and all of equal magnitude? If one were more conspicuous than another M. de Gaillefontaine was he, and he took care that none of his brilliancy should be obscured.

Like a cautious commander, M. de Gaillefontaine was not unprovided for adverse contingencies. Two evils he had dreaded. René might fall in love with her cousin, or with a member of the respectable class of society as represented by Sir Radcliffe Clinker. René was no longer morbidly anxious to find Hugh, and if she met him his claims would be great indeed to make her devote her thought to him when so many men of mark strove to interest her. There was no reason for supposing him better than other artists; his name was not famous. The second possibility her present position precluded. The Queen of Bohemia was a title she could not readily shake off, and one which would debar her from entering the higher class of society. M. de Gaillefontaine hated the stiff-necked gentlemen-they were men who would not take a wife without careful inquiries into her pecuniary arrangements, and who would strenuously oppose the retention of their wife's unrelated friend as a household god.

He felt himself secure, and rejoiced perhaps overmuch in his

immunity. He did not consider that the greatest calamities are those which spring from unseen

causes.

There came a letter from the solicitor in London, which, for two minutes, gave M. de Gaillefontaine trouble. Tapping his knuckles with the envelope, he asked himself whether he should show it to Miss Biron or burn it, and answer it on his own responsibility. This was the second letter upon the same subject: the first he had answered and burned; but this was not to be treated so easily, and the result of his considering was that he took the letter to René.

'A letter from our good Mr. Gray, your solicitor,' he said. ‘I am enraged, fâché, vexed that I must trouble you with it; and it is an affair so simple.'

'Then why should there be any vexation ?'

Well, it is a bluebottle in the ointment. Here we are, so merry, so gay; why should we have a cake of that winter fog sent over to us?'

'To make us enjoy the sunshine. May I-' she held her hand for the letter.

M. de Gaillefontaine was stroking his brows downwards with his hand, and possibly did not see the gesture, for he continued, still holding the letter,

'It is about this friend, our Mister Reynolds.'

'My gardener! I am interested in anything concerning him.'

'It is so, I know; that is why I ventured to take upon my own back the responsibility of answering a previous letter concerning him.'

'Without consulting-'

"Yes, without consulting you. I am your old friend, and take the privilege of an old friend to do that which I think will most

surely be of happiness to the one whose peace of mind I consider always, always, always.'

'You make me fear-'

'Yet it is so simple. The previous letter came when you were growing well; how could I show it you?'

I forgive you the moment you cease to tantalise. Now, Monsieur-'

M. de Gaillefontaine gave the letter with such an air of delight in being forgiven, combined with a gesture which signified regret, not unqualified by hope, as no Englishman could learn to express by a movement of his brows, shoulders, and back were he to study for a year.

This was the letter:

'Lincoln's Inn, March 10, 187-. 'Honoured Madame,-I apprised you in my letter of Nov. 12th last of the distressing circumstances attending the destruction of your property at Brixton, and received your reply of Nov. 14th. In obedience to your expressed wish, I acquainted Thomas Reynolds with your generous promise to absolve him from pecuniary responsibility and the payment of rent until his circumstances permitted. He has, however, this day paid the rent due at Christmas, although I am afraid his condition is not improved.

'With this matter I should not have troubled you, but that, from the interest you have displayed in the unfortunate man's affairs, I think it my duty to say that he desired anxiously to know your address, with what purpose I could not discover. I shall be glad to learn whether you sanction my giving him this information, or whether you prefer communications to be forwarded through my hands. Awaiting your reply, I am, madame, very obediently yours, 'JOSEPH GRAY.'

René bit her lips as she read, and her brow contracted. She turned upon M. de Gaillefontaine, and said hastily,

'M. de Gaillefontaine, I am sorry that you do not know me better. I am vexed-'

'And yet it is so simple.'

'Tell me at once all that you know.

This destruction-'

'A house-a little house-burned down; no more. Why should I enrage you with a matter so insignificant ?'

But the distressing circumstances attending it?'

'Our Tom Reynold, he saved his wife from being burned. Is it not distressing? This Mister Gray, he should write feuilletons.'

'How did he save her?' 'He wrapped her in the blanket and carpet and pillows, as Our Othello served Desdemona-only with different motives.'

'But how did he escape?'

There, madame, you make me weep; I may jest no more. Our poor Tom was burned. He lay in the hospital; but he came out-' 'Well ?' 'Blind.'

'Blind!' cried René faintly. The shock deprived her of strength, and she sat down trembling.

In the moments of silence that followed M. de Gaillefontaine enjoyed his success. He had told his story dramatically, and with one word struck shuddering horror into the listener. It was an effect, a situation, a tableau to be enjoyed by the artist who produced it.

'Blind.' He reiterated the word of confirmation in a subdued melodramatic tone. He was careless of everything but his own identity, as all vain men are. If he had been a Napoleon he would have rejoiced in a Moscow retreat, to think that he was the author of a disaster which must appal the world with its horrors.

His exultation was brief. René quickly recovered strength, and with it anger returned. The levity with which De Gaillefontaine treated the matter incensed her, and he had insulted her woman's instincts to keep from her the knowledge of a circumstance which demanded at least her sympathising pity. This was a personal affair, with which she alone could deal. Who usurped her power of doing good robbed her of her dearest privilege; who, in her name, did less than she Iwould do debased her. Excited sentiments of this kind rapidly sped through her mind, and each added to her displeasure.

And this is what you call a simple matter,' she said, with sarcasm in her tone and anger in her eyes.

'I would say again-but now with such regrets and such pain as my distress and your anger command-it is simple. The best has been done that could be done. What could you do that I have not already performed?'

'A woman's work,' answered René sharply, as she struck the. bell.

She was downright angry. Her white nostrils played, her lips were compressed, and she walked up and down the room impatiently. M. de Gaillefontaine opened his eyes; he had never seen René so moved against him. He was anxious now as to the result. Rene's anger was accumulating; the premonitions of storm made him apprehensive of evil; her present silence was ominous. She touched the bell again impatiently. There was no knowing what disasters might attend the bursting of this thunder-cloud, nor whom the lightning would blast.

You will think, my dear miss, that your humble friend has acted only in consideration of your happiness; you will forgive me if-"

He had struck an attitude intended to provoke pity, but he now found it necessary to assume one which would inspire respect, for the bell was answered by Rene's English maid, who had not yet learnt to conceal her amusement when she found M. de Gaillefontaine 'playactin',' as she called it. René disregarded him, and said to the girl,

'Pack everything that is necessary, and be ready to leave here by the evening mail.'

"You are going to London ?' asked M. de Gaillefontaine, with unfeigned astonishment.

'Yes,' answered René quietly, with the slightest smile of satisfaction, which showed that she too was pleased to be the heroine of a situation.

CHAPTER XVIII.

HUGH BIRON had no secrets from his chum Charlie Brock, and told the particulars of his interview with Fox, and of his determination to have no hand in that which seemed to him no better than a conspiracy against René. But Brock took another view of the affair.

'You are a flat, a sentimental ninny,' said he. 'I wish I had the chance of running for a fortune; I would not be beaten by a party of French adventurers.'

'Yes, you would, Charlie, if the conditions of running involved your partnership with a man you know to be a rascal.'

'I'll be bound Fox isn't such a rascal as this Gascon and his daughter are. Villany is the only thing in which I would grant superiority to a foreigner. I see less harm in thwarting De Gaillefontaine than in permitting him to have his own way. Falconry is becoming fashionable, and why on

earth should you feel compunction in accepting the spoil from your own hawk which otherwise would have fallen a prey to this greedy eagle?'

'I have only an impostor's word for it that De Gaillefontaine and René Biron are impostors.'

And you have only their word for it that they are not.'

'I am tolerably certain about Fox's character; of the others I really know nothing. I will have nothing to do with it.'

'Perhaps when you find yourself pinched for a shilling you will wish you had not refused ten thousand a year. Ten thousand a year! Think of it. I can't sit still with the idea of that fortune escaping you. Consider what you might do with the money.'

'No, I won't, or I may fall into your error, and forget principle in regarding interest.'

If

So Hugh dismissed the subject, and would talk of it no more. the fortune fell to him without his action he would accept it willingly, but he would do nothing to get it through a man he knew to be dishonest in thought at least. Nevertheless he looked to the first page of the Times occasionally; and after the notice of his grandfather's death he experienced some very natural curiosity to know how his property was left. He thought once of writing to René Biron for the address of his grandfather's solicitor, but a moment's reflection made him ashamed of the idea.

'My grandfather has discarded me, and I have no claim upon his property,' he thought. If he had relented towards me, Fox, in his own interest, would have made the fact known. It has been left to René, and she shall have it without dispute, for any interference must expose me to ridicule or my own regret. If this girl is as bad as Fox suggests, she would be little disposed to part with any of her pos

sessions, unless I had and could prove a legal claim; and if she is a decent good girl, as doubtless she is, then I should be downright ashamed of seeking to take from her a particle of that which is hers by moral right.'

In September Charlie Brock went to Wales, and Hugh, who at this time was devoting himself to figure-painting, was left in sole possession of the studio in Charlroy Street a fact which was known to M. de Gaillefontaine when he advised René to seek him in Italy. Without the reminding voice of his friend, Hugh gradually ceased to think of Riverford, and gave up reading the advertisements for next of kin. The winter passed away without his hearing a word from Mr. Fox, or anything to recall his attention to him. It was in March when, by the strangest accident, a young woman came to sit to him as a model who knew René, and told him that which on the face of it was a flat contradiction to the character Fox had given him of his cousin. He was told that she was beautiful and gracious; but he would not accept for absolute truth all that his informant argued from these facts. It is not the fashion for ill-doers to go about like stage villains, letting every one into the secret of their villany,' thought he. The girl may be simply unscrupulous; indeed, what this her partisan tells me suggests want of principle; and the very worst of women have been beautiful, and possessed of minor virtues endearing them to those not immediately in their way.'

These very thoughts were in his mind one morning as he was preparing for the day's work, when Mr. Fox's card was put in his hand. He did not hesitate to give him an interview, and felt something more than mere curiosity as to what Fox had to say.

Mr. Fox usually dressed in a complete suit of black; a deep hatband and large kid gloves signified his sorrow for the loss sustained by Gregory's death, &c. And that he might not be deemed to wear his heart entirely on his hat and hands, he made his smile as melancholy as his pleasure in greeting Hugh permitted.

'Mr. Gray, the solicitor, has told you of our loss, Mr. Biron?' said he, casting his beady eyes about the room, as he took the seat offered him.

'No; but I saw the notice of my grandfather's death in the papers,' Hugh answered; and catching Fox's glance of scrutiny, he bethought him of covering a certain study of a female head that stood upon the easel, and with as little concern as he could assume he lifted another canvas and laid over it.

'Something he doesn't wish me to see why? A woman's head, as well as I could see without my glasses. He wouldn't put that other picture over it, and then sit with his back to it, for any other reason than to hide the lower one. Why does not he wish me to see it?'

These notes and queries ran through Mr. Fox's head, and whilst taking off his glove he seemed to be considering how to open the subject of his visit.

So you were not officially informed of dear Mr. Biron's decease. Hem! Doesn't that seem to you rather odd, considering that as his grandson you had a right to suppose yourself interested in his will ?'

'I have heard nothing from my cousin or her solicitor, probably because they did not know where to find me.'

'M. de Gaillefontaine is aware of your address. But possibly your cousin Miss René Biron is not