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"As shines the moon in clouded skies.

She in her poor attire was seen." .... Tennyson.

A WARM, tranquil night.

The stars gleam in the deep, clear blue of the sky. The night-dews glisten on the grass and shine in the hearts of the roses; the heavy scents of flowers float up from the gardens below the terraces; the whole of the Château of Renonçeux is ablaze with lights, and the painted oriels gleam through the screen of foliage, while the dusky shadows of the twilight reign without.

Blanche de Verdreuil stands on the terrace fronting the château—the soft folds of her dress floating behind her, and the gleam of diamonds sparkling in the rich gold of her hair.

She looks wonderfully beautiful in the dusky light, while her eyes gaze out on the wide-stretching park, the silver spray of the fountains, the white gleam of the marble statues. How still the whole country lies in the hush of that starlit peace! How, in the dark, still, dewy night, all woe and weariness seem as unremembered things.

Blanche leans her cheek on her hand and listens languidly to the tale she hears—the tale which Albert Hoffmann at last finds courage to tell, for already a week has passed since Vivienne St. Maurice came to the château.

His voice is very low and very earnest as he confides to the beautiful woman beside him the strange romantic history of the friendless girl, whose genius is so rare, whose poverty so great.

"How long ago is it since she came?" asked Blanche presently; "a week did you say? That was before Raoul left, then?"

"Yes, madame. It was the very day you met that accident by falling from your horse."

"And why did you not tell me about her before?" asked Blanche, glancing up at him with radiant, smiling eyes.

"Because you never gave me the opportunity, madame! You know for three days you did not leave your room, and since then you have been so much engaged, I scarcely liked to intrude upon you with this history."

"Did Raoul know of it?" asked the countess.

"Oh yes, madame, I told him at once; but he said of course it was not a case a man could interfere with."

"Do you know?" asked Blanche presently, while a faint flush wavered on her cheek,—"do you know why Raoul left so hurriedly?"

"No; I wish I could say I did," said Albert, a little sadly; "he pleaded business, but I scarcely think it was solely and entirely business that took him away from here. But one can never question Raoul too closely."

Blanche de Verdreuil was silent for some moments.

"It was strange," she said musingly; "he promised to stay a month at Renonçeux, and was not here a week!"

"Raoul was always a bird of passage," said Albert, smiling; "his movements are generally uncertain, and his time never his own. But I wish he had not left so soon. For a whole year I had not seen him, and then—only to stay a week after all."

"Perhaps he will come again in the autumn," said Blanche; "did he give any hint of doing so?"

"None whatever," answered Albert, "but still I hope he will come. He is going to England now, and he never stops there long, I know."

Blanche was silent again. Her thoughts seemed wandering far away, and Albert began to think he had not after all succeeded in interesting her about Vivienne. Suddenly she turned to him again——

"The girl is very beautiful, you say?"

"Yes, madame; but her beauty is far from being her only charm. It is her gifts—her genius for which I plead. It would be sad if they were lost."

"Beautiful, gifted, and an orphan! I was an orphan too, yet none offered to befriend me," said Blanche in a low, sad voice unlike her own. "And what do you wish me to do for this girl?" she continued, turning suddenly to Albert. "Adopt her, educate her, or turn her into a prima donna who will astonish the world by her advent?"

"I want you to see her yourself," said Albert earnestly; "her life is now one of poverty and obscurity—a life for which she is in every way unsuited. At present she is a mere child, free and careless and unconscious of harm, but she knows her gifts. No amount of poverty and hardships could ever yet stifle genius in a human soul. It will assert itself; it will speak out its power. And this girl is, after all, only true to her sex. She is conscious of her own ability; and, being so, she cannot be content, while cramped and restrained in the exercise of it. What woman could?"

"How eloquently you plead her cause!" said Blanche, a faint smile lingering on her lips as she spoke. "Indeed, so powerful a champion must have good reason for his interest and zeal. You have made me quite anxious to see this wonder of yours, monsieur. Where did you say she lived?"

"Just on the outskirts of the wood, madame; the carriage-road leads by the cottage."

"You have soon found that out, I see," said Blanche, laughing. "Have you paid her a visit since she was at the château, monsieur?"

"No; certainly not," answered Albert coldly. "Poor as Mademoiselle St. Maurice is, and humble as her circumstances seem, she is as proud, and as deserving of respect as any lady in the land."

"Sans doute, monsieur—in your estimation. Well, I feel curious to see this wonder. But mind, I make no promises; if she is as proud as you say, she will not be an easy subject for either patronage or assistance, I imagine. And now let us go indoors and have some music. The night air grows chill, I think."

Albert gave her his arm without a word, and as he watched her pass from group to group, the centre of attraction wherever she moved, he almost doubted whether his conversation had left any impression on her mind.

That it had done so, Blanche de Verdreuil could have assured him with perfect truth; for she felt strangely interested about this girl, of whom she had heard twice already; and the very morning after her conversation with Albert Hoffmann she set out to pay her promised visit.

Vivienne St. Maurice had already begun to doubt the sincerity of Albert's promises, and to fancy he had forgotten her entirely. Standing at the porch of her cottage home one bright sunny morning, and dwelling, as she so often dwelt, on the memory of that interview, she was suddenly startled by the noise of approaching wheels.

They came nearer and nearer—so near at last that she turned her head and saw a dainty little pony-carriage driven by a woman so wonderfully lovely that the girl looked at her in amazement, wondering how anything so fair could be human. A little page, dressed in the De Verdreuil livery, sprang down from his seat as the carriage paused at the cottage gate, and took the reins from the hands of his mistress. Then Vivienne, suddenly recovering her scattered senses, became aware that the visitor was looking inquiringly towards her, and hastened swiftly down the garden path to receive her.

"Is this Manon Beauvoir's cottage?" inquired the lady.

"Yes, madame," said Vivienne, blushing at the earnest scrutiny of the gaze she met.

"And you? you are Vivienne St. Maurice, I suppose?" pursued her interrogator.

"Yes, madame."

"Ah! Perhaps you do not know me. I have not been long enough at Renonçeux to make acquaintance with all my people. I am the Countess de Verdreuil."

"Will madame be pleased to enter?" said the girl shyly, flushing to her temples as she thought of Albert's promise, and saw he had not forgotten it. "Shall I call gran'mère to receive her?"

"Oh no!" said Blanche de Verdreuil lightly, "I only came to see you. We will go and sit there in the garden, under that great pear-tree of yours, and I will tell you my reasons for this visit."

And, gathering up the trailing silken skirts of her dress, the countess followed the girl to the rustic seat she had mentioned. She was startled at Vivienne's beauty, the grace of her figure, the rich southern loveliness of her face, the sweet, shy manner that yet was free from all rustic awkwardness and diffidence. But above all there was something about her face, her smile, her look, that brought back some memory to her thoughts, that haunted her with a dim recollection of some other face she had seen, but whose fugitive likeness she could not follow or trace at present.

She seated herself on the bench, while Vivienne remained standing opposite her—the warm sunlight falling through the boughs and touching her cheek with its hot kiss, till the scarlet bloom deepened, and the great dark, glowing eyes gained new brightness. Blanche de Verdreuil, leaning back on her seat, and keenly scrutinizing the girl's face and figure, grew more puzzled every moment.

"I suppose you are surprised to see me?" she said presently. "The truth is, that Monsieur Hoffmann, my husband's ward, has been speaking to me about your voice. He heard you sing, and was so struck by your proficiency that he wishes me to see if I can aid you in turning your talents to account. Should you like to be a great singer, mademoiselle?"

"Oh yes, madame!" cried the girl eagerly. "But is it possible? do you think I could?"

Blanche laughed a little coldly.

"I should say your face was a fortune in itself, without your voice being in the question at all," she answered. "I have not heard you sing yet, or I could judge better of your powers. But of course, to be a singer you must study your art; you must learn to act as well. Should you care to do this?"

The girl's face clouded.

"I should like it—yes; but gran'mère, she thinks the stage so wicked. Even when I told her of all that monsieur at the château said to me, she scolded me for listening to him. She said she would never allow me to go to any theatre, or act or sing in public, as long as she lived."

"Ah! that alters the case of course. Well, let me hear your story—as much of it as you know. Perhaps I can find some other means of assisting you. With that picture of a face you deserve a better fate than to be buried alive in this wretched hovel."

This beautiful, soulless, sensual woman, with her exquisite face, and her shallow nature, was for once interested and absorbed by the strange attraction of this girl's manner, and the charm of face and voice which gave her history, simple as it was, a nameless charm of its own. That she was well-born she could not doubt; the poise of her head, the ease and grace of manner, the sweet, high-bred dignity which sat so naturally upon her, were all indications of birth far above her present station; and ever and anon that strange memory, that dim likeness she could not follow, flashed across Blanche de Verdreuil's mind as she listened to the girl's simple story, and by its light read all the danger the world would hold for one so lovely and so unprotected.

"That is all?" she questioned, as Vivienne ceased speaking at last.

"All, madame."

"I wonder why this girl interests me," thought the countess. "It seems absurd to think of my turning philanthropist. But I like her, strange to say, though, as a rule, my own sex are about as indifferent to me as anything else that does not contribute to my enjoyment."

"A sad story," she continued aloud. "But, mademoiselle, you need have no fear of the future if you choose to accept the favours of chance. No one could sentence you to poverty and obscurity with a face that is a poem in itself, and a voice which, from all accounts, may rival Pasta's. Suppose you come to the château for a little while; see how you like the life there. My guests leave in a few weeks now. You are welcome to stay with me then, and I will see what I can do for you."

"Oh, madame!" cried the girl joyfully, "do you really mean it? How kind, how good you are!"

Blanche laughed—a scornful, harsh laugh that somehow jarred on the girl's ear, and pained her heart. Why, she could not tell.

"Am I? You are the first that ever said so. Well, will you come when I send for you?"

"But gran'mère," said Vivienne hesitatingly, "she is so old, so helpless, madame. I cannot leave her."

"Nonsense," said the countess impatiently, while a shade of irritation clouded her eyes. "You don't mean to drag her about everywhere you go, I suppose? I cannot certainly have wooden shoes and serge petticoats in my reception-rooms, even to please you, petite. No, if you come to me you must come alone; and you must forget this rustic life for the time being; I will give you plenty of opportunity for doing so."

Vivienne hesitated. The temptation was very powerful, but still a lingering doubt of its motives shadowed her prospects of happiness.

"If your visit pleases you," continued Blanche, feeling a strange inclination to tempt this girl to accept her offer, "you may stop with me altogether, if you like. Renonçeux is dull enough when my guests leave, and I must remain there during the autumn and winter. I should like a companion, mademoiselle; with a year or two of education and culture you would be irresistible. Surely this wretched, poverty-stricken life is not worth a thought beside the one I offer you."

"But gran'mère," persisted Vivienne, "what will she do here alone?"

"She will not be selfish enough to mar your prospects, I imagine," said the Countess de Verdreuil. "Of course you must give her up if you come to me. But you will be treated like a young princess at Renonçeux; you will have done with poverty and obscurity. Now what do you say to my offer? will you accept it?"

How self-confident the question was! How little doubt lingered in Blanche de Verdreuil's mind concerning its ready acceptance!

But the girl still stood before her, motionless, speechless; her breath coming and going in quick uncertain gasps,—a sense of bewilderment and uncertainty in her mind.

At last she spoke.

"Madame, your offer is generous—too generous almost, it seems to me. But ought I to accept it? I have no claim upon you—no right to your bounty and interest; and—pardon me, madame, but it seems as if to agree with your demands I must give up the only friend I have in the world—the faithful love which has sheltered and guarded me so long—that I, in short, must desert, in her helpless old age, the very protectress and guardian of my life hitherto; and for what? to benefit myself entirely. Oh, madame, do not tempt me! Indeed, indeed, to act as you would have me act seems so ungrateful. It cannot be right, I feel sure."

"You are very foolish, I think," said Blanche, rising and surveying the girl with cold, astonished anger; "you will doubtless never have such another chance offered you; and my conditions are so simple, I cannot understand why you refuse them."

"I hope you are not angry, madame," said Vivienne timidly. "I know you are most kind, most generous; but, even though my heart craves for the life your words open to me, I cannot forget that my first duty is to her who took me from my dead mother's arms—who sheltered and cared for, and protected me, even in her poverty—who has been the only friend I have known, and whom you ask me to forsake."

The proud, simple words touched Blanche de Verdreuil's heart with a faint sense of shame, but she only answered coldly,—

"Of course you must please yourself; I only hope you may never repent your present decision." Then she turned haughtily away, and Vivienne followed to open the gate for her.

The one chance she had longed for—the one hope she had cherished—she had lost now. The girl's face paled as the thought crossed her mind,—"Was she not acting foolishly? Would she not repent it all her life long?"

"Adieu, mademoiselle!" spoke the clear, cold voice of the offended countess. "If you do change your mind, perhaps you will let me know. Take a week to consider all I have said." Then she took the reins in her hands, and in a few moments was out of sight.

"Was it a dream?" thought Vivienne, standing there and gazing after the fairy-like equipage gradually disappearing amidst a cloud of dust. "Was it all a dream? or have I really refused what my heart has been longing for these months past?"

She bent her head on the gate where her arms rested, and thought of all she had lost by her decision—of the grandeur and beauty and endless enjoyment of the life she had voluntarily refused, and then, in contrast to it, of the humble cottage, the daily toil and anxiety, the hard, ceaseless routine of her present life.

"But I could not forsake gran'mère," she said as she raised her head and proudly dashed away the tears in her soft, wistful eyes. "I could not; it would be so base, so ungrateful. Oh! why did the countess make it so hard for me to decide?"

Then she walked back to the cottage and entered it. How poor and humble it looked! How the red-brick floor, with its one worn shred of carpet, and the rush-bottomed chairs, and even the neat array of the simple homely ware on the shelves struck upon her notice!

How bare and destitute this home was, and how utterly devoid of anything save the barest necessaries, the meanest comforts! She glanced at the coarse rough dress of her faithful old nurse, busied now about the ordinary duties of her life, the simple, domestic cares which to her seemed so important—to the young girl, in her youth and strength, and beauty, so trivial.

Involuntarily, Vivienne contrasted this life of hers with what it might have been; and her eyes, wandering to the rough serge garments of her own wear, seemed to behold again the exquisite robes and delicate laces of Blanche de Verdreuil's costly toilette.

"I have had a visitor, gran'mère," she said presently, as she took the soup-pot from the old woman's feeble hands and set it on the fire. "Did you see our lady from the château here?"

"No, child!" exclaimed the old woman in astonishment; "what did she come for?"

"To see me, I believe," said Vivienne carelessly, "at least, so she said. It appears, gran'mère, that the gentleman I saw in the music-gallery the other day has spoken to the countess about—about my voice, and she wants me to become a singer. She would educate me for it herself, and she wished me to live at the château entirely."

"Did she say so?" exclaimed gran'mère Beauvoir in unfeigned astonishment: "did she really say so, petite? To live at the château? Now our Lady be praised, but this is, indeed, good news!"

"Would you like me to go there?" asked Vivienne, wistfully, as she came and leant on the back of the chair where the old woman had seated herself to recover from her astonishment.

Gran'mère hesitated a moment.

"Like it? Nay, petite, thou art the very sunshine of my old eyes! Like it? no! But then I must think of thee, dear child. My life is but a rough and coarse one for such as thee, Vivienne. I can never forget thy mother was a lady, and I am only a peasant. Well, what more said the countess?"

"Oh, many things," answered the girl; "but what need to repeat them now? I am not going to Renonçeux: I told her so."

"Not going?" echoed gran'mère in surprise. "Why, petite?"

"Why? Because she burdened her invitation with an impossible condition," said Vivienne proudly. "I was to leave you—leave you, gran'mère. Oh! how could she be so heartless as to ask it?"

"Truly, child, you were foolish to think she would not ask it," said the old woman tenderly. "Is it likely that I can go to the château? Am I fit for the presence of the great lords and ladies there?"

"You are fit for a queen's palace, gran'mère," cried the girl, eagerly and impulsively, as she knelt down by the side of her aged friend and drew the frail old hands tenderly down on her bowed head; "and where you cannot go, I will not. Do you think I would ever leave you—you, who have stood in place of father and mother to me so long—my one best friend on earth?"

Gran'mère's eyes grew dim as she listened to the sweet, impulsive words.

"Ah, chérie," she answered softly, "I am old and feeble now. The blessed saints have heard my prayers and opened a new home for you when the old home can be yours no longer. Dear child! you must go to the château for my sake."

"And leave you here to die alone and helpless? A fitting return truly, to make for a lifetime of devotion! Oh, gran'mère, do you think so badly of me as to ask it?"

"Not now, not just now, chérie; but when I am gone, when you have no friend or protector left; then, Vivienne, you must promise me to accept this shelter. You will have a home more fitted for you than this, petite, and I shall be content to go when I know I leave you safe."

"Oh, gran'mère, gran'mère," cried the girl, bursting into a passion of weeping, "don't break my heart by saying you will leave me! How can you die and leave me in this great lonely world alone?"

"Dear child, it is God's will!"—and the aged voice grew reverent, and the trembling hands more firm in their clasp—"God's will, Vivienne; and if thy future is safe, my heart will be at peace. When the time comes, He will be Thy Protector and thy Friend!"