desired her to get herself ready to go up stairs to their chamber.

As she spoke she herself rose from her chair, and made her final little bow to the table, and her other final little bow and smile to M. Lacordaire; but this was certain to all who saw it, that the smile was not as gracious as usual.

As she walked forth, M. Lacordaire rose from his chair—such being his constant practice when she left the table; but on this occasion he accompanied her to the door.

“And has madame decided,” he asked, “whether she will permit me to accompany her to the château?”

“Well, I really don’t know,” said Mrs. Thompson.

“Mees Meemy,” continued M. Lacordaire, “is very anxious to see the rock, and I may perhaps hope that Mees Lilian would be pleased with such a little excursion.  As for myself—” and then M. Lacordaire put his hand upon his heart in a manner that seemed to speak more plainly than he had ever spoken.

“Well, if the children would really like it, and—as you are so very kind,” said Mrs. Thompson; and so the matter was conceded.

“To-morrow afternoon?” suggested M. Lacordaire.  But Mrs. Thompson fixed on Saturday, thereby showing that she herself was in no hurry for the expedition.

“Oh, I am so glad!” said Mimmy, when they had re-entered their own room.  “Mamma, do let me tell Lilian myself when I go up to the school to-morrow!”

But mamma was in no humour to say much to her child on this subject at the present moment.  She threw herself back on her sofa in perfect silence, and began to reflect whether she would like to sign her name in future as Fanny Lacordaire, instead of Fanny Thompson.  It certainly seemed as though things were verging towards such a necessity.  A marchand!  But a marchand of what?  She had an instinctive feeling that the people in the hotel were talking about her and M. Lacordaire, and was therefore more than ever averse to asking any one a question.

As she went up to the school the next afternoon, she walked through more of the streets of Le Puy than was necessary, and in every street she looked at the names which she saw over the doors of the more respectable houses of business.  But she looked in vain.  It might be that M. Lacordaire was a marchand of so specially high a quality as to be under no necessity to put up his name at all.  Sir Hommajee Bommajee’s name did not appear over any door in Bombay;—at least, she thought not.

And then came the Saturday morning.  “We shall be ready at two,” she said, as she left the breakfast-table; “and perhaps you would not mind calling for Lilian on the way.”

M. Lacordaire would be delighted to call anywhere for anybody on behalf of Mrs. Thompson; and then, as he got to the door of the salon, he offered her his hand.  He did so with so much French courtesy that she could not refuse it, and then she felt that his purpose was more tender than ever it had been.  And why not, if this was the destiny which Fate had prepared for her?

Mrs. Thompson would rather have got into the carriage at any other spot in Le Puy than at that at which she was forced to do so—the chief entrance, namely, of the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs.  And what made it worse was this, that an appearance of a special fate was given to the occasion.  M. Lacordaire was dressed in more than his Sunday best.  He had on new yellow kid gloves.  His coat, if not new, was newer than any Mrs. Thompson had yet observed, and was lined with silk up to the very collar.  He had on patent leather boots, which glittered, as Mrs. Thompson thought, much too conspicuously.  And as for his hat, it was quite evident that it was fresh that morning from the maker’s block.

In this costume, with his hat in his hand, he stood under the great gateway of the hotel, ready to hand Mrs. Thompson into the carriage.  This would have been nothing if the landlord and landlady had not been there also, as well as the man-cook, and the four waiters, and the fille de chambre.  Two or three other pair of eyes Mrs. Thompson also saw, as she glanced round, and then Mimmy walked across the yard in her best clothes with a fête-day air about her for which her mother would have liked to have whipped her.

But what did it matter?  If it was written in the book that she should become Madame Lacordaire, of course the world would know that there must have been some preparatory love-making.  Let them have their laugh; a good husband would not be dearly purchased at so trifling an expense.  And so they sallied forth with already half the ceremony of a wedding.

Mimmy seated herself opposite to her mother, and M. Lacordaire also sat with his back to the horses, leaving the second place of honour for Lilian.  “Pray make yourself comfortable, M. Lacordaire, and don’t mind her,” said Mrs. Thompson.  But he was firm in his purpose of civility, perhaps making up his mind that when he should in truth stand in the place of papa to the young lady, then would be his time for having the back seat in the carnage.

Lilian, also in her best frock, came down the school-steps, and three of the school teachers came with her.  It would have added to Mrs. Thompson’s happiness at that moment if M. Lacordaire would have kept his polished boots out of sight, and put his yellow gloves into his pocket.

And then they started.  The road from Le Puy to Polignac is nearly all up hill; and a very steep hill it is, so that there was plenty of time for conversation.  But the girls had it nearly all to themselves.  Mimmy thought that she had never found M. Lacordaire so stupid; and Lilian told her sister on the first safe opportunity that occurred, that it seemed very much as though they were all going to church.

“And do any of the Polignac people ever live at this place?” asked Mrs. Thompson, by way of making conversation; in answer to which M. Lacordaire informed madame that the place was at present only a ruin; and then there was again silence till they found themselves under the rock, and were informed by the driver that the rest of the ascent must be made on foot.

The rock now stood abrupt and precipitous above their heads.  It was larger in its circumference and with much larger space on its summit than those other volcanic rocks in and close to the town; but then at the same time it was higher from the ground, and quite as inaccessible, except by the single path which led up to the château.

M. Lacordaire, with conspicuous gallantry, first assisted Mrs. Thompson from the carriage, and then handed down the two young ladies.  No lady could have been so difficult to please as to complain of him, and yet Mrs. Thompson thought that he was not as agreeable as usual.  Those horrid boots and those horrid gloves gave him such an air of holiday finery that neither could he be at his ease wearing them, nor could she, in seeing them worn.

They were soon taken in hand by the poor woman whose privilege it was to show the ruins.  For a little distance they walked up the path in single file; not that it was too narrow to accommodate two, but M. Lacordaire’s courage had not yet been screwed to a point which admitted of his offering his arm to the widow.  For in France, it must be remembered, that this means more than it does in some other countries.

Mrs. Thompson felt that all this was silly and useless.  If they were not to be dear friends this coming out fêting together, those boots and gloves and new hat were all very foolish; and if they were, the sooner they understood each other the better.  So Mrs. Thompson, finding that the path was steep and the weather warm, stood still for a while leaning against the wall, with a look of considerable fatigue in her face.

“Will madame permit me the honour of offering her my arm?” said M. Lacordaire.  “The road is so extraordinarily steep for madame to climb.”

Mrs. Thompson did permit him the honour, and so they went on till they reached the top.

The view from the summit