“Everything on this estate is locked up,” said she.  “Nothing can be sold, nothing given away, nothing even repaired, till the proces is ended.”

I sighed, and came down reluctantly from my perch.  Josephine was visibly impatient.  She had seen the wedding-party going down one of the walks at the back of the house; and the concierge was waiting to let us out.  I drew her aside, and slipped a liberal gratuity into her hand.

“If I were to come down here some day with a friend of mine who is a painter,” I whispered, “would you have any objection, Madame, to allow him to make a little sketch of that portrait?”

The concierge looked into her palm, and seeing the value of the coin, smiled, hesitated, put her finger to her lip, and said:—­

“Ma foi, M’sieur, I believe I have no business to allow it; but—­to oblige a gentleman like you—­if there was nobody about—­”

I nodded.  We understood each other sufficiently, and no more was needed.

Once out of the house, Medemoiselle Josephine pouted, and took upon herself to be sulky—­a disposition which was by no means lessened when, after traversing the park in various directions in search of the bridal company, we found that they had gone out long ago by a gate at the other side of the estate, and were by this time piping, most probably, in the adjoining parish.

It was now five o’clock; so we hastened back through the village, cast a last glance at the grim old tower on its steep solitude, consigned ourselves to the yellow omnibus, and in due time were once more flying along the iron road towards Paris.  The rapid motion, the dignity of occupying a first-class seat, and, above all, the prospects of an excellent dinner, soon brought my fair companion round again, and by the time we reached the Moulin Rouge, she was all vivacity and good temper.  The less I say about that dinner the better.  I am humiliated when I recall all that I suffered, and all that she did.  I blush even now when I remember how she blew upon her soup, put her knife in her mouth, and picked her teeth with her shawl-pin.  What possessed her that she would persist in calling the waiter “Monsieur?” And why, in Heaven’s name, need she have clapped her hands when I ordered the champagne?  To say that I had no appetite—­that I wished myself at the antipodes—­that I longed to sink into my boots, to smother the waiter, or to do anything equally desperate and unreasonable, is to express but a tithe of the anguish I endured.  I bore it, however, in silence, little dreaming what a much heavier trial was yet in store for me.

CHAPTER XXI.

I FALL A SACRIFICE TO MRS. GRUNDY.

“A word with you, if you please, Basil Arbuthnot,” said Dr. Cheron, “when you have finished copying those prescriptions.”