Whether or not there was in that part of France a more charming view than that from the terrace of the Chateau de Valricour, there certainly was not in all France on that bright May morning a more happy pair than the two young people who sat side by side, each clasping the other’s hand, in one of the pleasant trellised arbours which from either end of the terrace overlooked the pleasant scene. And yet, perhaps, those who think the beautiful in nature inconsistent with strongly marked and striking features, might consider that true happiness and prosperity, so called, could not co-exist with such intense excitement and such bewildering surprise as just then rendered Isidore and Marguerite for some minutes incapable of expressing what they felt.

“I can scarcely believe it possible. O Isidore! are you quite sure that there is no strange mistake in it all?”

“Nay, read for yourself, my darling one,” he replied, once more unfolding the letter which he held in his hand, and quietly withdrawing the other to point to the words that had brought out the passionate declaration he had but just made to her.

“See here! After a few lines about my uncle Valricour, this is what my father says. You do not know him as well as I do, but you see he is not one to allow any silly notions about fortune or noble descent to stand in the way of what he believes to be right.”

Marguerite took the letter, and though still trembling with excitement, managed to read as follows:

“And now, my dear son, I must allude to a very different matter. Madame de Valricour writes to me that you have lost your heart, and that although for reasons, which, she says, she quite understands, you have not made it known, she thinks it time that I should intervene. I think so too; and I do so the more willingly as I doubt not that your reticence and hesitation in this matter has arisen from a natural feeling that I might be opposed to your union with one who is not your equal in point of rank, and who will not, I fancy, bring you a sou in the way of marriage portion. Well, I will ease your mind at once. To you, and therefore to me, money can be no object. As an old soldier myself I might well be content to receive as my daughter-in-law even one who could boast of no higher title than that of a brave soldier’s daughter; in any case, your wife will be the Marquise de Beaujardin, so, assuming that Madame de Valricour is correct in her supposition, I see no reason why I should go out of my way to thwart a son who has ever deserved my affection, and has proved himself likewise to be worthy of the name of a good soldier.”

The letter dropped from her hands. “Isidore, Isidore! what have you done?” said she in a tone that had in it no trace of the delight he had anticipated. “O Isidore! your fond heart has blinded you. What shall I do? Isidore, you have brought ruin on your dear self, and all for me!”

Astonished and disconcerted at this unexpected outburst, Isidore would have endeavoured to calm her, but as he took her hand in his she uttered a slight cry, and on looking round he beheld Madame de Valricour standing only a few paces from them, regarding them apparently with speechless amazement.

However much the young marquis might have lost his self-possession when he and Marguerite were the only actors in the scene, the appearance of Madame de Valricour at once brought back his usual command over himself, although he certainly was somewhat puzzled at the blank expression of her face at that moment.

“I would apologise to you, my dear aunt,” said he, “for allowing myself to be caught at such a very sentimental crisis, but that I know that it is to you and no one else that I owe my happiness at this moment, and

He stopped short, for the blank look had suddenly changed into one so fiercely angry that anything further in the way of complimentary speeches was not to be thought of, and a dead pause ensued.

Leave us, Mademoiselle Lacroix! cried Madame de Valricour vehemently. Marguerite hesitated, her reluctance to leave Isidore alone in so painful a dilemma, overcoming even her habitual deference to Madame de Valricour; but Isidore, who felt that he should be more free to speak or act if unembarrassed by her presence, quietly led her away from the spot. Then, after raising her hand to his lips, he returned to the baroness and addressed her thus

“I am utterly at a loss to understand you, my aunt you, to whom I was about to offer my warmest thanks for so kindly smoothing the way to my union with Mademoiselle Lacroix.”

“I!” exclaimed the baroness, apparently forgetting her indignation for a moment in her amazement. “I! Who says this? It is false! There is some ridiculous mistake here or rather some shameful trick. You have not dared, sir, to make the girl believe that

“Calm yourself, my good aunt,” replied Isidore, interrupting her. “As for trick or deception, I shall not insult either you or myself by further noticing words spoken in a hasty moment. As for any mistake, you or my father must answer for that, if there is any. He tells me you have written to him on the subject, and he has expressed his approval of my choice.”

“It is false, absolutely false!” exclaimed the baroness, passionately. “When where has the marquis told you this? Show me the letter. It is a cheat which you would put both upon me and this girl. Show me the letter, I say!”

“If Madame de Valricour doubts my word,” answered Isidore haughtily, “she will have to satisfy herself elsewhere. I am not in the habit of substantiating my assertions.”

“I say again it is false,” reiterated the incensed baroness, forgetting her usual caution. “I wrote to your father about you and Clotilde. Do you dare to tell me that he has bidden you to marry some one else? If you are not a base and unworthy trickster, then you must be the veriest idiot alive.”

A single lens may not, perhaps, suffice to make an object visible, but place another in juxtaposition with it and suddenly all becomes clear and distinct. Isidore recalled the piteous words uttered by Marguerite as she dropped the letter, and the truth flashed across his mind at once.

Madame de Valricour had thrown herself into a chair as she concluded her tirade, for the collected way in which her nephew had at first listened to her, and his high and mighty air, seemed to belie any charge of duplicity at all events. But when she noticed the alarmed expression of his face, and the no less unmistakable change in his manner, she was on her feet again in a moment and was about to renew the attack, but he interrupted her.

“Pardon me, my aunt,” said he, “it is worse than useless for us two to discuss this business. I am afraid I have made a mistake indeed, and one that is like enough to cause no little bitterness and trouble. Yet I do not regret it for one moment,” he added, as he thought of the few loving words with which Marguerite had confessed her long-cherished affection for him. “Whatever you may think, my aunt, I have acted honestly and in good faith, and it will rest with my father to decide how all this is to end. I shall appeal to him at once. Nay, I beseech you, my good aunt,” he continued, seeing the baroness about to break forth again, “let us not make things worse by useless altercation. With your permission I will relieve you of my presence, and will desire Jasmin to order our horses that I may return at once to Beaujardin.”

Without giving Madame de Valricour time for any further comment, Isidore then bowed to her and withdrew.