the Regent, and to repair his shattered fortunes he engaged, at the advice of Lau, in those disastrous financial enterprises that paved the way for the Revolution. He failed completely in his ventures, left Paris insolvent, and took refuge in the Château de Chamondrin, where he hoped to escape the wrath of his creditors. But they complained to the king, and brought such influence to bear upon him that Louis XV., the Well-beloved, who had just ascended the throne, informed the Marquis de Chamondrin that he would allow him three months in which to choose between the payment of his debts and incarceration in the Bastile. The Marquis did not hesitate long. He sold all his property with the exception of this château and paid his debts. But when this plebeian duty was accomplished, it left him in receipt of an extremely modest income. Poverty had fallen upon this house at the very time that the favor of the king was withdrawn from it, and this two-fold misfortune was quickly followed by the birth of a son and the loss of his wife.

These afflictions completely prostrated this man who was wholly unprepared to meet them. He shut himself up in his château, and there, far from the pleasures for which he pined, far from the friends who had forgotten him, cursing God and man for his misfortunes, he lapsed into a misanthropy that rendered him nervous and eccentric almost to madness. He lived twenty years in this way, apparently taking no pleasure or interest in his son, whose youth was gloomy and whose education was entrusted entirely to the curé of a neighboring village. He died in 1765, in the middle of the eighteenth century, the first half of which had proved so fatal to the prosperity of his house.

His son, Hector—the same who had sheltered Tiepoletta—found himself, when he became of age, the owner of a name famous in the courts of Europe and upon many a field of battle, of an income of five thousand pounds and of the Château de Chamondrin. He was a gentle, serious young man of very simple tastes. He quickly resigned himself to the situation. After a close examination of the condition of affairs, he resolved to devote his life and all his efforts to the restoration of the glory of his name. He married, two years after the death of his father, the daughter of an impoverished Provençal nobleman, a lady whose domestic virtues seemed likely to aid him in the execution of his plans. He brought his wife home the day after their marriage and then said to her:

"My dear Edmée, you have entered a family which for the past forty years has been subjected to reverses which can only be repaired by great self-denial on our part. We cannot hope to enjoy the fruits of our labors ourselves, but our children, should God grant us any, may enjoy them, and it is for their sakes that we must endeavor to restore the house of Chamondrin to its former splendor and opulence; and since you have consented to share my humble lot I hope that you will unite your efforts with mine to lay aside each year a sum that will enable our oldest son, when he arrives at the age of manhood, to make a respectable appearance at court where he will perhaps be fortunate enough to win the king's favor, our only hope."

"You will ever find me ready to second you in your efforts," replied the young wife.

A son and a daughter were born to them during the two years that followed. Nor were these their only blessings. The crops were abundant and their savings considerable. The life of the young couple was serene and happy. The Marquis was hopeful; the Marquise, a charming and most lovable creature, shared his hopes. Undoubtedly their life in this isolated château was often lonely and monotonous. The winters were very long; but the Marquis read a great deal, hunted and superintended his farms with the diligence of a peasant. The Marquise, too, was obliged to have a finger in the pie, to use a common expression. She directed the affairs of her household with as much care and economy as the plainest bourgeoise and seemed to live only to second the efforts of her husband. If resignation is the chief element of happiness, they were happy at the Château de Chamondrin.

Four years passed in this way. Little Philip was growing finely; he had passed safely through the perils of teething and was beginning to talk.

"We will make a fine gentleman of him," said the Marquis. "He will create a sensation at court; the king will give him command of a regiment, and he will marry some rich heiress. As for this young lady," he added, caressing his daughter who was named Martha, "if we cannot give her a dowry we will obtain an appointment as lady abbess for her."

The Marquise encouraged her dear Hector in these projects with her sweetest smile; but a terrible accident, followed by a catastrophe no less horrible, destroyed these delightful dreams and brought desolation to this happy home.

Towards the close of the year 1769, Martha, the youngest child, began to lose her fine color and faded so rapidly that her parents became alarmed. They passed long nights at the bedside of the little sufferer, who seemed to be a victim of a sort of nervous debility or exhaustion. One night the Marquise volunteered to watch while her husband slept, and, in administering some medicine to her child, mistook the vial and poisoned her. Martha died and it was impossible to conceal the cause of her death from the grief-stricken mother. Her despair was even more poignant than that of her husband for with hers was mingled a frightful remorse which all the tenderness of the Marquis could not assuage. This despair caused an attack of fever from which she recovered, but which left her in a still more pitiable condition. A profound calm had succeeded the paroxysms of fever; and her sorrow no longer betrayed itself in sobs and lamentations, but only in silent tears and heart-breaking sighs. These alarming symptoms soon revealed the truth: reason had fled. For hours at a time poor Edmée rocked to and fro, with a bundle of rags clasped tightly to her breast, crooning over it the same lullaby she had been wont to sing over her sleeping child.

Physicians summoned from Avignon, Nîmes and Montpellier tried in vain to overcome this deep despondency, which was far more dangerous than frenzy. Their skill was powerless; they could not give the Marquis even the slightest ray of hope. It was not long before the Marquise became frightfully pale and emaciated, while her mind was more than ever under the control of the monomania which saw her daughter in all the objects that surrounded her. She took, by turns, flowers, articles of clothing and of furniture, lavishing every mark of affection upon them and calling them by the most endearing names until their insensibility dispelled the illusion and she cast them aside with loathing to seek elsewhere the child for which she mourned.

These afflictions, the rapidity with which they had followed one another and their magnitude impaired the health of the Marquis. He fell ill in his turn, and for more than a month Coursegol thought the shadow of death was hovering over his master. But the Marquis was young and strong; and the thought that if he succumbed his son would be left an orphan produced a salutary reaction. He was soon on his feet again, and, though he was always sad, he accepted his misfortunes bravely and resolved to live for his son's sake.

These events occurred about a year before Tiepoletta dragged herself to the door of the château to die in Coursegol's arms, confiding her daughter to his care.

After he had prayed for the departed, Coursegol rose, took up little Dolores and went out into the court-yard, calling:

"Master Philip! Master Philip!"

The little fellow, who was playing in charge of