M. and Madame Darbois had received the telegram announcing the return of their daughter, and were at the station to meet her. Esperance saw them and would have jumped out before the train had fully slopped. Maurice held her just in time.

"No foolishness there, little cousin. Your bodyguards must return you intact to your family's four arms. One more moment of patience. What a hurry you are in to be rid of us."

She held out her little hands to the two young men. "Oh, naughty Maurice! You know very well that I shall never forget these three days we have passed together, when you have been so good to me and taught me so very much."

Maurice kissed her boldly; Jean put his lips very respectfully to the warm, soft little hand.

The train stopped and the Darbois family were in an instant reunited. Mlle. Frahender declined escort to her convent. FranÇois Darbois installed her in a landau, and after he had thanked her heartily for her kindness to his daughter, gave the address to the coachman, who drove away with the old lady holding her inevitable little package on her lap, and steadying her old-fashioned little attachÉ case on the seat opposite.

The Darbois family took their places in another carriage. Esperance must sit between her father and mother, leaning close to them, caressing them endlessly, and dropping her little blonde head on her mother's shoulder.

"Oh! how long it seems since I have seen you," she kept repeating.

She held her father's hand and pressed it against her heart. It seemed to her suddenly as if she had suffered from that absence of three days, and yet she could not specify at what moment she had wished herself back with them. She recounted all the little events that had taken place during the three eventful days.

"You know," she explained to her father, "I am bringing you all the newspaper articles. Then I have the letter from the President of the Committee, and the beautiful presents from the King and Queen."

The carriage stopped at the Boulevard Raspail. The concierge came forward.

"I am sure I hope that Mademoiselle has had a success."

Esperance looked at her with astonishment, but the woman's husband came up with a newspaper in his hand, which he unfolded to display the picture of Esperance just beneath the headlines.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "they will make me odious to the public.
Mounet-Sully was so wonderful. Worms so fine in his monologue…."

Sadness overcame her.

She was still sad when she entered her own room. She touched all the familiar little objects, and kissed the feet of the ivory Virgin upon her mantel-piece with great emotion. She thanked her mother with a look when she saw the fresh marguerites in the two enamel vases. In comparison with the luxury of her apartment at the Grand Hotel in Brussels, the simple surroundings of her own room charmed her anew. She swayed for a moment in her rocking-chair, sat down on her low stool, knelt upon her bed to straighten the branch of box beneath the silver crucifix her mother had given her when she was seventeen.

Marguerite came in with the trunk and luggage.

"What is that?" asked Esperance, spying a big box fastened with nails.

"I don't know anything about it, Mademoiselle. They gave it to me at the hotel saying it was for you."

The box on being opened displayed a magnificent basket of orchids.
Attached by a white ribbon was a card—"Countess Styvens."

Esperance grew pale; she took the card from her mother's hands, fearing that she might be mistaken. It was indeed the Countess and not the Count. She breathed again! Marguerite and the maid carried the basket into the salon; then the young girl went into the library with her mother. The newspaper clippings were spread out on the table, and the two famous trinkets had been taken from their cases. Madame Darbois clasped and unclasped her hands.

"Oh! but they are too beautiful, simply too beautiful!" she said.

And the philosopher, half in indignation, half in indulgence, exclaimed, "My poor child, you can not possibly wear such jewels at your age!"

"Ah!" said Esperance with disappointment, "I cannot wear them?"

"Why, no, it is out of the question."

"You will be able to wear them in a play, at the theatre," said Madame Darbois, but her tone lacked assurance, for she did not know whether that would be possible either.

M. Darbois had turned his attention to the notices, having pushed aside the descriptive paragraphs. He read them and gave them to his wife.

"Your godfather came to complain to us of Maurice, of Jean Perliez, and of yourself. You all displeased him; tell us just what happened?"

Esperance recounted the happenings with perfect impartiality, adding honestly that she had done nothing to try to persuade her godfather to remain. The philosopher smiled.

"Very well, let us forget all that. We will take up our happy life
again, that has been interrupted by your triumphs," he added sadly.
And then, as the women were preparing to leave the library, "Tell me,
Esperance, who is the Countess Styvens?"

"A great lady at court, and oh! so charming."

"Is Count Albert Styvens of the Legation any relation of hers?"

"Yes, father, he is her son. But why do you ask that?"

"Your godfather spoke to me of this young man, who, it seems, wants to complete his studies in philosophy."

The poor little star trembled. She was on the point of confessing all her presentiments, her terrors, to her father…. But he had just sat down to his desk and seemed already indifferent to what was going on around him. She went softly out of the library, following her mother, who was bearing away the newspaper excerpts and the royal jewel cases.

In the beautiful house which Countess Styvens occupied with her son, an animated discussion was taking place at the same moment between Baron von Berger and Count Albert.

"I advise you, my boy," the Baron was saying brusquely, "to ask for another post. You, so sensible, too sensible, for a man of your age, in fact it's a little ridiculous…."

"That has nothing to do with it," returned the younger man coolly.

"All very well, but my quasi-paternal duty is to stop you before certain danger. You admit that you adore this young star of seventeen, the daughter of a philosopher of high standing. You do not intend, I suppose, to make her your mistress?"

Albert Styvens felt the blood run into his temples, but he did not answer.

The Baron continued, more determinedly, "You do not intend to propose her as a daughter-in-law to your mother?"

For an instant a vertigo froze the young man's being. His heart stopped beating, his throat contracted with a terrific pressure of blood. He did not answer a word.

"In God's name," cried the Baron violently, "am I in the presence of a woman or a man?"

"A man," said Count Albert, getting to his feet. "A man whose anger is held in check by his respect, but who can endure no more," he added, throwing back his arms to allow his chest to dilate still farther. "I am going to answer you; please listen without interruption."

Then, after a moment more of silence, he declared, "Yes, I am desperately in love with this young girl, and I am going to try everything, not to make her love me, for that she probably never will—but that she will let herself be loved. What will come of it, I have not the least idea. I want her and no one else. I will commit no disloyal act, I give you my word for that. If she should become my wife, it would be with my mother's full permission. I beg you now, my dear Baron, to say nothing further about it; I am old enough to regulate my life, as much as the divine guiding force which you call 'Destiny' permits."

He came up to the Baron, clasped his hand in a firm grasp, and reaching for his hat, added, "I want to get out in the air. Shall we go together?"

The Baron recognized the opposition of an unchangeable will to his own, which no discussion could influence.