this charge.  It seems, however, that respect and regard for women do not form part of a gentleman’s duties nowadays.  I shall therefore be obliged to make up myself for the absence of such attentions, and watch over the safety of the persons and other creatures that belong to me.  I shall leave for Paris tomorrow.  I hope that Constance’s condition will permit her to endure the journey, but Baptiste’s wound is too serious for me to dare to expose him.  I am compelled, although with deep regret, to leave him here until he is able to travel, trusting him to the kind mercies of my niece.

   “Receive, Monsieur, with my adieux, my thanks for your courteous
   hospitality.

   “Yolande de Corandeuil.”

“Your aunt abuses the privileges of being foolish,” said the Baron, when his wife had finished reading the letter; “she deserts the battlefield and leaves behind her wounded.”

“But I saw her, not two hours ago, and, although she was very angry, she did not say one word of this departure.”

“Jean handed me this letter but a moment ago, clad in full livery, and with the importance of an ambassador who demands his passports.  You must go and talk with her, dear, and use all your eloquence to make her change her mind.”

“I will go at once,” said Clemence, rising.

“You know that your aunt is rather obstinate when she takes a notion into her head.  If she persists in this, tell her, in order to decide her to remain, that I am obliged to go to Epinal with Monsieur de Carrier tomorrow morning, on account of the sale of some wood-land, and that I shall be absent three days at least.  You understand that it will be difficult for your aunt to leave you alone during my absence, on account of these gentlemen.”

“Certainly, that could not be,” said she, quickly.

“I do not see, as far as I am concerned, anything improper about it,” said the Baron, trying to smile; “but we must obey the proprieties.  You are too young and too pretty a mistress of the house to pass for a chaperon, and Aline, instead of being a help, would be one inconvenience the more.  So your aunt must stay here until my return.”

“And by that time Constance and Baptiste will be both cured and her anger will have passed away.  You did not tell me about this trip to Epinal nor the selling of the woodland.”

“Go to your aunt’s room before she retires to bed,” replied Bergenheim, without paying any attention to this remark, and seating himself in the armchair; “I will wait for you here.  We leave to-morrow morning early, and I wish to know tonight what to depend upon.”