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"There was an aged monarch;

His heart was sad; his head was grey;

This poor and aged monarch

A young wife married one day." ....Heine.

"WHAT was it you wanted, Albert?" Raoul de Verdreuil asked this question as he stood in the music-room beside his friend.

"Nothing very particular, Raoul, only——" and the boyish face flushed suddenly with shame, and pride, and pleasure, "only I have written an opera at last. It is quite finished now, and I thought if you would not mind asking the countess for me, that we might have it performed here at Renonçeux. It is only in three acts, and we could do without scenery even, or get it from Paris. You know the theatre she has had built would do admirably, and she sings so well and acts so well herself that I am sure we could manage it. I want to hear how it sounds. If it pleases me I might get it done in Paris afterwards; don't you think so, Raoul?"

"Why, how ambitious you have become, all of a sudden," laughed his friend, gazing fondly down at the flushed, eager face, as he spoke. "A year ago we could hardly get you to acknowledge even what you had composed, and now you want to challenge public opinion on it. What has created such a change in that bashful mind of yours?"

"Please don't laugh at me, Raoul," pleaded the sweet, boyish voice; "I am in earnest about this, but I don't like to ask the countess myself; she is very kind and sympathetic, and often comes here and makes me play to her, but I have not courage to proffer this request for all that. Will you do it?"

"If you wish it, yes," said Raoul, his face darkening slightly as he spoke, as though the mission entrusted to him was not an agreeable one. "But I would much rather not. The Countess de Verdreuil and myself are not the best of friends, and I scarcely think a request of mine will carry much weight. However, I will try my best. You know there is little or nothing I can refuse you!"

"Indeed, you are only too good to me always, Raoul," said Albert Hoffmann earnestly; "but tell me why are you so averse to the countess? she seems so interested in you, she talks so much about you, and yet you are so cold and indifferent, and appear to me to dislike her so much. Why is it, Raoul? Did you know her before she married your father? Is there any real reason for your antipathy?"

"Those are questions I do not care to answer," said Raoul de Verdreuil coldly. "I did know the countess before she married, and that knowledge was sufficient to make me feel certain she was no fit wife for my father. He married her in a moment of deepest infatuation, and when I found the step was irrevocably taken I knew it was no use to rake up the bitterness of the past. But this I know, in Blanche de Verdreuil's life there is a secret, and the women of our race have ever brought unsullied hearts and natures to the lords of Renonçeux. I said some such words as these to my father when I first heard of his strange and sudden marriage, and the result was that we came about as near to quarrelling irrevocably as ever two men, fiery, and proud, and self-willed, could come. I have not forgiven yet the woman who came between me and my father's love; the woman who first caused us to part in anger. True, we are reconciled again, but there is a restraint between us now. The old perfect confidence has given place to reserve. The first seeds of estrangement have been sown, and the harvest may be a plentiful one for aught I know. Women are born mischief-makers I verily believe."

A look of distress crossed Albert Hoffmann's face as he listened to these words.

"I am so sorry, Raoul, for your sake," he said gently, "but perhaps you are mistaken about the countess. She is so gentle and winning, and your father is so devoted to her, that I cannot help thinking the step he has taken is for his own happiness. He looks ten years younger since he married."

"Yes, it is all very well now," said Raoul, turning to the window impatiently; "but will it last? That is the question arising constantly in my mind; the question I cannot answer."

"Let us hope it will last, Raoul," said the quiet voice of the boy artist who, living in his own world of dreams and fancies, could scarcely comprehend the vexed and troubled questions of grave duties, sterner truths, the whole wonderful and contradictory elements of human life around him.

"Now I fear I have made you melancholy, Albert," said Raoul de Verdreuil, after a moment's silence, during which his thoughts had not been pleasant ones, to judge from his face. "I forget sometimes what a veritable tyro you are in the ways of the world. Banish that grave face now, and go and play to me; your music will soothe me better than anything, and effectually drive away my ill-humour."

Albert obeyed immediately; his friend's slightest wish was ever law to him. In truth it was no common friendship that bound these two apparently dissimilar characters; for the timid, trustful, clinging nature of Albert Hoffmann needed the support and sympathy of a stronger nature, and had found it in Raoul de Verdreuil, and by force of that very contrast which so often marks the friendship of men and women, so in like manner, the firm, self-reliant, and proud heart of the one found a strange peace and content in the innocent love and inalienable devotion of the other. Raoul de Verdreuil was Albert's beau idéal of manly perfection. His very coldness and hauteur, his steadfast will, his unrestrained ambitions, and his pride of race and heritage were all virtues in the eyes of his friend; for to him he was never cold; never negligent; never proud. The most perfect confidence and sympathy existed between them; the sympathy of mutual comprehension, of exhaustless tenderness, of boundless trust; and though their friendship was not one that proclaimed itself to all eyes and ears as women's friendships so often do, yet it lived in their hearts and spoke in their lives, and was to each a sure and living reality that needed few words, that was rather felt than seen.

Obedient to Raoul's wish Albert Hoffmann turned now to the organ, and the melody of his own creation rolled out in waves of richest sound in the stillness of the early day. His friend stood silent beside him, listening to the deep-drawn, melodious chords, solemn as a cathedral chant, tender as a dream of youth, pure as the inspiration of a poet. The lingering harmonies grew sadder and more plaintive; the artist gave the rein to fancy, and let his hands interpret his thoughts as they would, and Raoul's eyes rested musingly and regretfully on the player.

The light from the stained glass windows cast strange shadows on the oaken floor, and fell across the ivory keys of the organ. Now and then a lingering sunbeam touched the bent head and loose, golden curls of the young artist, and still he played on and on, forgetful of all other presence; while the thoughtful beauty of his face grew rapt and bright, and the dreamful, far-off look in his eyes made Raoul's heart ache with strange and sudden pain. It seemed as if the unearthly beauty of the boy's young face struck him with fear and foreboding in that moment. So might the angels look in the courts of glory above, but so does never a human face look unless the seal of another Life is set upon its beauty.

An hour later Raoul de Verdreuil was seated in the breakfast-room of the château. The room was filled with guests; the table glittered with crystal and silver, and the sunlight sparkled on rare fruits and costly dainties, on dishes and wines that would have tempted even the most exingéant of epicures.

Through the open windows the scents of the rose-gardens below stole in with soft and subtle odours and golden rays of light flitted ever and anon through the lace and azure hangings, to rest on women's faces, and linger on tresses sunny as the summer sunshine itself.

There was one woman there whose beauty was so rare and perfect that it made her shine out among the groups around as something too exquisite for rivalry. She was Blanche, Countess de Verdreuil, wife of the handsome, white-haired man beside her, who bore his threescore years so lightly and gracefully still. He and Raoul were very like each other—the same dark, haughty face reminding one of Vandyck's portraits, the same grave, proud eyes, and broad, thoughtful brow had descended from father to son. Both were eminently handsome men, worthy of the race from which they sprung; the race whose boast had ever been, "Their women were always lovely, their men always great."

The old count's infatuation for his young wife had become a byword among his friends and acquaintances, and her loveliness was a potent spell sufficient in itself to account for the rapt and unalienable devotion she received. She was very fair—too fair to be of southern origin, with great lustrous eyes, and hair that seemed to have caught its hue from the sunlight and kept it evermore. Her lips were lovely; laughing, child-like, scarlet as carnation buds; lips that whether parted in smiles, or closed in gravity, were always full of charm.

In fact, Blanche de Verdreuil was that most enchanting, and dangerous creation—a perfectly beautiful woman. Figure, face—both were types of feminine loveliness, faultless in their way. If the perfect face was trained to each expression, if the eyes wanted depth and sincerity, if the lovely, child-like lips wore that seemingly innocent smile, a trifle too often for it to be quite genuine, none noticed it, save and except—Raoul de Verdreuil.

To him—a man well skilled in reading natures, to him who thinks men's hearts and passions are instruments for his skilful hands to play upon as he will—this woman's shallow, selfish nature bears the stain of that one vice he abhors,—deceit. He knows it, and she knows that he does; that to him her witcheries, and airy graces, and matchless coquetry, are all a sham. There is no ring of true metal in the base coins she proffers; artifice is her real charm; her beauty and her nature are alike, shallow and soulless. Perhaps of all the men who have been blinded by her charms and led captive by her coquetries, Raoul de Verdreuil is the only one who read her nature too thoroughly ever to be deceived by it. In the black gulf of years long past—years that Blanche de Verdreuil never thinks of now without a shudder as of some nameless fear—she learnt her own powerlessness to charm this one man to love or believe in her.

The secret of those years lies between them, unknown to any save themselves, and it is one destined to work terrible havoc in the time to come.

Raoul de Verdreuil was right when he told Albert Hoffmann of his fears for the future, since this fair, radiant creature had become the mistress of his home, but those fears would have been doubly terrible could he have foreseen what lay in this woman's power, or read the treachery of her heart.

With all her beauty, with all her witchery and grace, Blanche de Verdreuil is a woman who will prove a subtle antagonist, a dangerous foe.

She is relentless and vindictive; she has neither the generosity to forgive or foreget the slightest offence against her own supreme beauty and self-love. She has her own schemes to work even now, and a storm is already hovering on the horizon of that home life at Renonçeux—a storm that will work a deadly, fearful havoc over more than one of its inmates when it bursts.

But there is no sign of it yet, no omen of its ruin, and fury, and despair on the radiant face of the lovely châtelaine of Renonçeux, in the adoring worship of her husband's eyes as they rest on her ever and always from amidst the many other beautiful women she rivals, as the sun outrivals the stars; in the grave, impassive features of Raoul de Verdreuil sitting there by Albert Hoffmann's side, with never a smile upon his lips at the gay jests and idle words that fall upon his ear. But he looks up suddenly at last as Blanche de Verdreuil's clear, sweet voice exclaims gaily,—

"A forest divinity, Monsieur Legard! Who can it be? I thought I knew most of the fair paysannes around, but I can call to remembrance none worthy of such an enthusiastic description as yours."

"Oh, Gaston is romancing as usual," said a beautiful brunette, Madame de Villeroi by name, and cousin to Gaston Legard. "He is always lighting upon some rara avis, you know, who generally proves the very reverse of what we were led to expect."

"I am not romancing in this instance, however," said Monsieur Legard. "Ask De Verdreuil if I am not right in what I said? Raoul, was not the maiden we frightened from her forest retreat this morning as lovely as any nymph of classic lore?"

"She was very beautiful, I allow," said Raoul coldly, "but we had so little time to judge that I could not undertake to catalogue her charms as you have done!"

"There! did I not say he was romancing?" cried Madame de Villeroi, flashing her beautiful eyes triumphantly on her cousin's face. "How could you tell what she was like, Gaston, when Monsieur de Verdreuil, who had the same time and opportunity for judging, declares his inability to do so. Was she fair or dark, Monsieur de Verdreuil?"

"I really cannot say," said Raoul, with a faint smile. "Fair, I think."

"Wrong!" exclaimed Gaston Legard; "she was dark; at least her hair looked like a mixture of bronze and gold in the sunlight, but her eyes were dark—dark as night. What is the use of asking De Verdreuil about a woman, he never knows what they're like. I suppose he would describe Madame la Comtesse as dark, if any one asked him. I never saw any one so ignorant and so indifferent on all matters appertaining to your adorable sex, madame" (with a slight bow to the Countess de Verdreuil), "as Raoul is. But, as I told him this morning, it will be all the worse for him one day."

A general laugh followed this remark. Raoul de Verdreuil's coldness and indifference towards women were, indeed, proverbial, and many a beautiful and, as she deemed, irresistible member of the beau sexe had used all her powers of fascination in vain to chain him to her side—to win something warmer than that calm, perfect courtesy which never changed, and was as faultless as it was cold.

No wonder women called him heartless, for no loveliness had ever charmed him to warmth and passion; no eyes lulled him to forgetfulness of his own aims, his own ambitions; no lips wooed him to the brief delirium of love. His indifference was borne of real, not pretended coldness; was no cynical affectation of disdain, but simply the very thing it appeared. Love was to him an empty sound—a meaningless jest; a passion, that lived in men's words—not ruled their hearts; a name that he greeted with that superb disdain which only strong natures feel for the weakness of their fellow-men.

He smiled at those words of Gaston Legard's—a smile, that illuminated his dark, haughty features, without softening or warming their passionless repose.

"All the worse for me one day," he answered, echoing Legard's last words. "By the time that indefinite period arrives, Gaston, I hope I shall be able to combat its dangers. I am undergoing my novitiate under good tuition."

"Indeed, whose is that?" asked his friend eagerly. "Didn't you, just this morning, declare that you were never in love in your life, and never wished to be, and——"

"Oh hush, pray!" interrupted Raoul, laughing. "Don't betray my confidence so rashly; a nice fellow you are to be Father Confessor, I must say. What I told you though is quite true, and if you want to know the secret of my invincibility, as you call it, it lies in disbelief and indifference—two potent charms, are they not, madame?"

The latter portion of his sentence had been spoken so low that only Blanche de Verdreuil heard it. She looked hastily up at the young count's face, but meeting only that look of quiet amusement in his eyes, turned hastily away, and said, as if to hide her momentary embarrassment, "I think I must try and find out who this wonderful beauty is."

"For what purpose?" asked Raoul de Verdreuil suddenly. "Let her rest in her own sphere, madame, and keep that greatest of all earth's blessings, which the poor alone seem able to retain—content."

"Don't get epigrammatic, for goodness sake, Raoul," laughed Gaston Legard; "there's a season for all things you know, and none of us want to think seriously so early in the morning, I'm quite sure. By the way, Madame," he continued, turning to Blanche de Verdreuil, "did you not propose we should ride to the ruined abbey of St. Marguerite this morning? I think it is time the horses were ordered, if we mean to do it."

"Certainly," said the countess, looking intensely relieved at the change of subject. "Raoul, will you give the orders while we make our toilettes? I suppose you won't care to join us."

"Why not?" he said, in his most negligent, indifferent tone. "If one is bound to be idle, you know, one may as well be idle in company, and as I am taking a holiday from work I may as well take my fill of pleasure. What horse shall I order for you, madame, 'La Belle Etoile?'"

"No. I shall ride Estelle!" said the countess, rising from her seat.

"My dear Blanche," interposed her husband, "pray don't ride that chestnut again. It makes me quite nervous to think of your attempting it; remember the last time, and how nearly she threw you."

"Oh! I am not afraid," was the laughing answer. "There are few horses I cannot master if I choose."

"It will be great folly for you to attempt it, I think," said Raoul de Verdreuil quietly. "Estelle is not fit for a lady to ride. She is the wildest mare in the stables."

"Nevertheless, I mean to ride her," was the answer, given haughtily and coldly, while the flush deepened on the delicate cheek of Blanche de Verdreuil; and without another word she swept out of the room, with the graceful, swaying step so peculiarly her own. In vain her husband followed to entreat her to change her determination, she was firm and resolute, and declared her complete ability to master any horse she chose to ride, and the Count de Verdreuil, finding all remonstrance useless, could only beseech his son, who was a skilful and admirable horseman, to keep near the wilful beauty, and look after Estelle if she appeared inclined to show any mischief.

The mission seemed by no means a pleasant one to Raoul, for his face looked darker and graver than ever as he sauntered up and down the terrace waiting for the horses to appear.

"Are you coming, Albert?" he asked, stopping before the window of the library, and seeing his friend there watching him.

"No. I don't care for riding, you know, and besides I have some work to finish. The morning is the only time I can find now, since we are so gay at Renonçeux."

"But, my dear boy," said Raoul gently, "you work too hard, it seems to me. You are much too pale and thin for my liking. Do leave off composing for once, and come for a long ride. It will do you all the good in the world, and give you fresh inspiration too."

Albert Hoffman shook his head with a faint smile of disbelief.

"Don't tempt me, Raoul," he answered. "I know what I have to do, and I must do it. Life is short enough for art as it is. I do not care to waste an unnecessary moment. Ah! here come the riders. Raoul," he whispered, leaning forward so as to be nearer his friend, "you won't forget what I asked you, will you? about the opera, you know."

"I shall not forget," said Raoul quietly, his eyes wandering to the exquisite figure of Blanche de Verdreuil, as she came slowly towards them, in the full radiance of the sunlight. "Good-bye, mon cher, and don't overwork yourself, if only to please me."

The boyish face flushed all over with pleasure at those words.

"Rest assured of that," he said earnestly. Then he retreated from the window, and Raoul de Verdreuil turned slowly away to meet the countess.

"The horses are here, madame," he said, as he joined her. "Shall I assist you?"

"If you will," she answered, glancing at him in some surprise; his offers of courtesy were not very frequent. "But I thought you disapproved too much of my resolution to further or assist it in any way?"

"I do disapprove of it," said Raoul coldly, "but for all that I am going to help you in your evident determination to break your neck. As I cannot defeat your purpose, I may as well aid you in the first step towards it."

"What a pleasant speech!" laughed the countess merrily. "Really, monsieur, you must study the art of making yourself disagreeable, I think. That speech of yours at the breakfast table has mortally offended all the ladies here—they will never forgive it."

"I am very sorry, I am sure; I know by experience that truth is the one thing tabooed in polite circles. Bring that with you and you can count your enemies by the score immediately. I have unfortunately not yet managed to do without that unpleasant companion who has such an awkward knack of intruding when not desirable. Hence my reputation as a disagreeable man."

"A diplomat and truthful!" exclaimed Blanche, shrugging her shoulders with a gesture of incredulity. "Nay, monsieur; that is an anomaly I cannot believe in. Say rather, you make truth serve your purpose only when it suits you to hurt other people's feelings. Ah! here is Estelle. Now mount me, please. It is time we were off, for it is a long ride to St. Marguerite's Abbey."