"Do you believe, my dear, that I ought to let Esperance write to the Countess, as she proposes? I fear that she is making this sacrifice to gratify my vanity."

"Francois!" exclaimed Mme. Darbois indignantly.

"My pride, if you prefer it," he said. "But what is such a satisfaction in comparison with the happiness of a life? To me it seems very unjust!"

Germaine adored her husband and her daughter, but she believed more, than in anything in the world, in the n.o.ble genius of the philosopher.

"Esperance's sacrifice," she said, "is very slight. She is making a superb marriage into one of the n.o.blest, richest families in Belgium.

Albert worships the ground she walks on. The Countess will be more than indulgent to her. She is realizing the most perfect future a young girl can hope for. I see nothing to regret, because she is making a slight concession to her father."

Francois looked a little sadly at this mother who had never comprehended her daughter's psychology. He knew that for this sweet woman the happiness of life began with her husband and ended with him.

He did not want to argue and rose, saying, "I must do some work."

Ho kissed the unlined forehead of his beloved wife, and then as he was leaving the room added, "Tell Esperance I should like to see her letter before she sends it."

Esperance sat at her desk in her own room, but she sat with her head in her hands, unable to begin her letter. Presently Genevieve came in.

"Is anything the matter, dear?"

Esperance told her what had just happened downstairs.

"I have learned once more that all your reasonings and counsels are always wise, dear sister.... I am sitting trying how to write to the Countess to tell her that I am not going back to the stage!"

Genevieve kissed her. Esperance let her head fall on her friend's bosom, and raising her eyes to her face, said slowly, "But oh! I have not the courage."

Genevieve knelt beside the desk, and dipping the pen in the ink, put a fresh sheet of paper before Esperance, saying with a laugh, "Mlle., get on with your task. I am the school mistress to see that you write properly!"

The smile she brought to Esperance's lips chased away the nebulous uncertainties, and so she wrote her letter to her dear little "Countess-mama," as she had called her since her engagement. When her mother came with the philosopher's message and saw the letter, she was delighted with the phrasing and thanked her daughter warmly for the joy it would give her father.

"Ah! mama, I believe that I am the happiest of the three Darbois, dear ridiculous mama!" And she gave her a quick embrace.

Life was again travelling the simple, daily country round. It was after lunch, three days after Esperance had written her letter.

"Why so pensive, little daughter? Where were your thoughts?"

Esperance jumped up at this question from her father.

"I was dreaming. I am so sorry. I was in Belgium, near the Countess Styvens when my letter would be brought in to her, for, as nearly as I can make out, it ought to arrive to-day."

"No," said M. Darbois, "that letter has not been delivered; it is still in my desk."

Their faces expressed the great astonishment that they felt.

"You did not like it, papa?"

"Very much, very much. It is quite good--and--and pathetic."

"Then, darling papa?"

"I want to talk with you a little more before you send it."

Everyone drank their coffee a little quicker, and five minutes later Francois found himself alone with his daughter. Even Mme. Darbois had withdrawn, afraid that she might show her own anxiety too much.

"I am listening to you, papa."

"You are going to answer my questions with perfect frankness, Esperance?"

"Yes, father."

"Had you thought of writing to Countess Styvens before you read that letter?"

He drew the Academician's letter from his portfolio and placed it before her.

"No, father, dear."

"Then it was on my account, and to facilitate my admittance to the Academy, that you wrote?"

"Oh! no," replied Esperance quickly, "I would not do you that injustice, knowing how much you love me, and knowing the purity of your heart, the n.o.bility of your ambition. I am sacrificing what I believe, perhaps wrongly, to be my happiness, to the demands of a misunderstanding world. I knew, when I read that letter, that I had no right to drag a man of your merit, my dear mother, and all the family, into the troubles of a life in which they have no real interest. I did not want you to have the sympathy of the world. Sympathy is too often akin to scorn!"

Francois would have spoken, but Esperance interrupted him.

"Oh! father darling. You are so good. Don't torment me further, send the letter. I am still so new to this role. I need your sincere, your constant help."

Just then Marguerite came in and handed the philosopher a letter, bearing an armorial seal, which had just come from Palais. He quickly opened it, seemed surprised and pa.s.sed it to his daughter.

"What! The d.u.c.h.ess de Castel-Montjoie is at Palais," she said. Then she read: "My dear Philosopher, the Princess and I will come, if agreeable to you, after five. I name this hour because the Princess's yacht has to leave to take up friends who are waiting for us at Brehat."

"What time is it?" said Esperance, turning round.

The professor consulted his watch.

"Twenty minutes past three. Quick, Marguerite, tell the men to harness the victoria with the two horses at once."

A quarter of an hour later the carriage was ready to leave. When it had disappeared round the corner from the farm, Genevieve and her friend prepared to go for a walk. Esperance told her mother and Mlle.

Frahender that they would be back again in half an hour. They climbed down the cliff, and were soon out of earshot of everyone--they were quite alone. "Genevieve, Genevieve," said Esperance, "I feel that a new danger is threatening me, ready to destroy all my new illusions.

Do not leave me, darling."

"What is it that you fear?"

"I can only be sure of one thing, I am in such horrible distress, and that is that the Duke de Morlay-La-Branche is at the bottom of this visit. Ah! if I could be sure that I should never see him again, never, never!..."

And she cried in her great distress like a little child.

Genevieve stayed at her side, without saying a word, only stroking her hands from time to time. Presently Esperance grew calmer.

"Come," she said, rising from the boulder on which they had seated themselves. "We must dress to receive the enemy's emissaries." Her voice was light, but her heart was heavy.

Maurice, who had been strolling not far off with Jean, came up and noticing Esperance's tearful eyes, said: "What is the matter?"