careful movements. . . ."
"And after that?"
"After that, came oblivion, sleep, as before. . . . This time, I was ill, it appears; I was feverish. . . . And I woke in a bright, cheerful room. A white-haired lady was bending over me and smiling. It was grandmother . . . and the room was the one in which I now sleep upstairs."
She had resumed her happy face, her sweet, radiant expression; and she ended, with a smile:
"That was how she became my grandmother and how, after a few trials, the little Aspremont girl now knows the delights of a peaceful life and teaches grammar and arithmetic to little girls who are either naughty or lazy . . . but who are all fond of her."
She spoke cheerfully, in a tone at once thoughtful and gay, and it was obvious that she possessed a reasonable, well-balanced mind. Sernine listened to her with growing surprise and without trying to conceal his agitation:
"Have you never heard speak of that man since?" he asked.
"Never."
"And would you be glad to see him again?"
"Oh, very glad."
"Well, then, mademoiselle . . ."
Geneviève gave a start:
"You know something . . . the truth perhaps . . ."
"No . . . no . . . only . . ."
He rose and walked up and down the room. From time to time, his eyes fell upon Geneviève; and it looked as though he were on the point of giving a more precise answer to the question which she had put to him. Would he speak?
Mme. Ernemont awaited with anguish the revelation of the secret upon which the girl's future peace might depend.
He sat down beside Geneviève, appeared to hesitate, and said at last:
"No . . . no . . . just now . . . an idea occurred to me . . . a recollection . . ."
"A recollection? . . . And . . ."
"I was mistaken. Your story contained certain details that misled me."
"Are you sure?"
He hesitated and then declared:
"Absolutely sure."
"Oh," said she, greatly disappointed. "I had half guessed . . . that that man whom I saw twice . . . that you knew him . . . that . . ."
She did not finish her sentence, but waited for an answer to the question which she had put to him without daring to state it completely.
He was silent. Then, insisting no further, she bent over Mme. Ernemont:
"Good night, grandmother. My children must be in bed by this time, but they could none of them go to sleep before I had kissed them."
She held out her hand to the prince:
"Thank you once more. . . ."
"Are you going?" he asked quickly.
"Yes, if you will excuse me; grandmother will see you out."
He bowed low and kissed her hand. As she opened the door, she turned round and smiled. Then she disappeared. The prince listened to the sound of her footsteps diminishing in the distance and stood stock-still, his face white with emotion.
"Well," said the old lady, "so you did not speak?"
"No. . . ."
"That secret . . ."
"Later. . . . To-day . . . oddly enough . . . I was not able to."
"Was it so difficult? Did not she herself feel that you were the stranger who took her away twice. . . . A word would have been enough. . . ."
"Later, later," he repeated, recovering all his assurance. "You can understand . . . the child hardly knows me. . . . I must first gain the right to her affection, to her love. . . . When I have given her the life which she deserves, a wonderful life, such as one reads of in fairy-tales, then I will speak."
The old lady tossed her head:
"I fear that you are making a great mistake. Geneviève does not want a wonderful life. She has simple tastes."
"She has the tastes of all women; and wealth, luxury and power give joys which not one of them despises."
"Yes, Geneviève does. And you would do much better . . ."
"We shall see. For the moment, let me go my own way. And be quite easy. I have not the least intention, as you say, of mixing her up in any of my manœuvers. She will hardly ever see me. . . . Only, we had to come into contact, you know. . . . That's done. . . . Good-bye."
He left the school and walked to where his motor-car was waiting for him. He was perfectly happy:
"She is charming . . . and so gentle, so grave! Her mother's eyes, eyes that soften you . . . Heavens, how long ago that all is! And what a delightful recollection! A little sad, but so delightful!" And he said, aloud, "Certainly I shall look after her happiness! And that at once! This very evening! That's it, this very evening she shall have a sweetheart! Is not love the essential condition of any young girl's happiness?"
He found his car on the high-road:
"Home," he said to Octave.
When Sernine reached home, he rang up Neuilly and telephoned his instructions to the friend whom he called the doctor. Then he dressed, dined at the Rue Cambon Club, spent an hour at the opera and got into his car again:
"Go to Neuilly, Octave. We are going to fetch the doctor. What's the time?"
"Half-past ten."
"Dash it! Look sharp!"
Ten minutes later, the car stopped at the end of the Boulevard Inkerman, outside a villa standing in its own grounds. The doctor came down at the sound of the hooter. The prince asked:
"Is the fellow ready?"
"Packed up, strung up, sealed up."
"In good condition?"
"Excellent. If everything goes as you telephoned, the police will be utterly at sea."
"That's what they're there for. Let's get him on board."
They carried into the motor a sort of long sack shaped like a human being and apparently rather heavy. And the prince said:
"Go to Versailles, Octave, Rue de la Vilaine. Stop outside the Hôtel des Deux-Empereurs."
"Why, it's a filthy hotel," observed the doctor. "I know it well; a regular hovel."
"You needn't tell me! And it will be a hard piece of work, for me, at least. . . . But, by
