When France realized that Napoleon III had fallen, she turned and rent his memory. No dog, it appears, may have his day, but some cur must needs yelp at his heels. Indeed (and this applies to literary fame as to emperors), it is a sure sign that a man is climbing high if the little dogs bark below.

And the little dogs and the curs remembered now the many slights cast upon them. France had been betrayed—was ruined. The twenty most prosperous years of her history were forgotten. There was a rush of patriots to Paris, and another rush of the chicken-hearted to the coast and the frontier.

The Baron de MÉlide telegraphed to the baroness to quit FrÉjus and go to Italy. And the baroness telegraphed a refusal to do so.

Lory de Vasselot fretted as much as one of his buoyant nature could fret under this forced inactivity. The sunshine, the beautiful surroundings, and the presence of friends, made him forget France at times, and think only of the present. And Denise absorbed his thoughts of the present and the future. She was a constant puzzle to him. There seemed to be two Denise Langes: one who was gay with that deep note of wisdom in her gaiety, which only French women compass, with odd touches of tenderness and little traits of almost maternal solicitude, which betrayed themselves at such moments as the wounded man attempted to do something which his crippled condition or his weakness prevented him from accomplishing. The other Denise was clear-eyed, logical, almost cold, who resented any mention of Corsica or of the war. Indeed, de Vasselot had seen her face harden at some laughing reference made by him to his approaching recovery. He was quick enough to perceive that she was endeavouring to shut out of her life all but the present, which was unusual; for most pin their faith on the future until they are quite old, and their future must necessarily be a phantom.

“I do not understand you, mademoiselle,” he said, one day, on one of the rare occasions when she had allowed herself to be left alone with him. “You are brave, and yet you are a coward!”

And the resentment in her eyes took him by surprise. He did not know, perhaps, that the wisest men never see more than they are intended to see.

“Pray do not try,” she answered. “The effort might delay your recovery and your return to the army.”

She laughed, and presently left him. It is one thing to face the future, and another to sit quietly awaiting its approach. The majority of people spoil their lives by going out to meet the future, deliberately converting into a reality that which was only a dread. They call it knowing the worst.

The next morning Mademoiselle Brun, with a composed face and blinking eyes, mentioned casually to Lory that she and Denise were going back to Corsica.

“But why?” cried Lory; “but why, my dear demoiselle?”

“I do not know,” answered Mademoiselle Brun, smoothing her gloves. “It will, at all events, show the world that we are not afraid.”

De Vasselot looked at her non-committing face and held his peace. There was more in this than a man's philosophy might dream of.

“When do you go?” he asked after a pause.

“To-night, from Nice,” was the answer.

And, as has been noted, Denise and mademoiselle arrived at Bastia in the early morning, and drove to the Casa Perucca, in the face of more than one rifle-barrel. Mademoiselle Brun never asked questions, and, if she knew why Denise had returned to Perucca so suddenly, she had not acquired the knowledge from the girl herself, but had, behind her beady eyes, put two and two together with that accuracy of which women have the monopoly. She meekly set to work to make the Casa Perucca comfortable, and took up her horticultural labours where she had dropped them.

“One misses the ChÂteau de Vasselot,” she said one morning, standing by the open window that gave so wide a view of the valley.

“Yes,” answered Denise; and that was all.

Mademoiselle went into the garden with her leather gloves and a small basket. The odd thing about her gardening was, that it was on such a minute scale that the result was never visible to the ordinary eye. Denise had, it appeared, given up gardening. Mademoiselle Brun did not know how she occupied herself at this time. She seemed to do nothing, and preferred to do it alone. Returning to the house at midday, mademoiselle went into the drawing-room, and there found Denise and Colonel Gilbert seated at the table with some papers, and a map spread out before them.

Both looked up with a guilty air, and Denise flushed suddenly, while the colonel bit his lip. Immediately he recovered himself, and rising, shook hands with the new-comer.

“I heard that you had returned,” he said, “and hastened to pay my respects.”

“We were looking at the plans,” added Denise, hurriedly. “I have agreed to sell Perucca to Colonel Gilbert—as you have always wished me to do.”

“Yes; I have always wished you do it,” returned Mademoiselle Brun, slowly. She was very cool and collected, and in that had the advantage over her companions. “Has the colonel the money in his pocket?” she asked with a dry smile. “Is it to be settled this afternoon?”

She glanced from one to the other. If love is blind, he certainly tampers with the sight of those who have had dealings with him. Denise was only thinking of Perucca. She had not perceived that Colonel Gilbert was honestly in love with her. But Mademoiselle Brun saw it. She was wondering—if this thing had come to Gilbert twenty years earlier—what manner of man it might have made of him. It was a good love. Mademoiselle saw that quite clearly. For a dishonest man may at any moment be tripped up by an honest passion. Which is one of those practical jokes of Fate that break men's hearts.

“You know as well as I do,” said Colonel Gilbert, with more earnestness than he had ever shown, “that the sooner you and mademoiselle are out of the island the better.”

“Bah!” laughed mademoiselle. “With you at Bastia to watch over us, mon colonel! Besides, we Peruccas are invincible just now. Have we not burnt down the ChÂteau de Vasselot?”

Gilbert winced. Mademoiselle wondered why.

“I want it settled as soon as possible,” put in Denise, turning to the papers. “There is no need of delay.”

“None,” acquiesced mademoiselle. She wanted to sell Perucca and be done with it, and with the island. She was a woman of iron nerve, but the gloom and loneliness of Corsica had not left her at ease. There was a haunting air of disaster that seemed to brood over the whole land, with its miles and miles of untenanted mountains, its malarial plains, and deserted sea-board. “None,” she repeated. “But such transactions are not to be carried through, in a woman's drawing-room, by two women and a soldier.”

She looked from one to the other. She did not know why one wanted to buy and the other to sell. She only knew that her own inclination was to give them every assistance, and to give it even against her better judgment. It could only be, after all, the question of a little more or a little less profit, and she, who had never had any money, knew that the possession of it never makes a woman one whit the happier.

“Then,” said the colonel with his easy laugh—for he was inimitable in the graceful art of yielding—“Then, let us appoint a day to sign the necessary agreements in the office of the notary at Bastia. I tell you frankly I want to get you out of the island.”

The colonel stayed to lunch, and, whether by accident or intention, made a better impression than he had ever made before. He was intelligent, easy, full of information and o rara avis! proved himself to be a man without conceit. He never complained of his ill-fortune in life, but his individuality thrust the fact into every mind, that this was a man destined for distinction who had missed it. He seemed to be riding through life for a fall, and rode with his chin up, gay and debonnaire.

Mademoiselle Brun felt relieved by the thought that the end of Corsica, and this impossible Casa Perucca, was in sight. She was gay as a little grey mouse may be gay at some domestic festival. She sent the widow to the cellar, and the occasion was duly celebrated in a bottle of Mattei Perucca's old wine.

With coffee came the question of fixing a date for the signature of the deed of sale at the notary's office at Bastia. And instantly the mouse skipped, as it were, into a retired corner of the conversation and crouched silent, watching with bright eyes.

“I should like it to be done soon,” said the colonel, who, at the suggestion of his hostess, had lighted a cigarette. He seemed more himself with a cigarette between his fingers to contemplate with a dreamy eye, to turn and twist in reflective idleness. “You will understand that my future movements are uncertain if, as now seems possible, the war is not over.”

“But surely it is over,” put in Denise, quickly.

The colonel shrugged his shoulders.

“Who can tell? We are in the hands of a few journalists and lawyers, mademoiselle. If the men of words say 'Resist,' we others are ready. I have applied to be relieved of my command here, since they are going to fortify Paris. Shall we say next week?”

“To-day is Thursday—shall we say Monday?” replied Denise.

“Make it Wednesday,” suggested Mademoiselle Brun from her silent corner.

And after some discussion Wednesday was finally selected. Mademoiselle Brun had no particular reason why it should be Wednesday, in preference to Monday, and, unlike most people in such circumstances, advanced none.

“We shall require witnesses,” she said as the colonel took his leave. “I shall be able to find two to testify to the signature of Denise.”

The colonel had apparently forgotten this necessity. He thanked her and departed.

“And on Wednesday,” he said, “I shall in reality have the money in my pocket.”

During the afternoon mademoiselle announced her intention of walking to Olmeta. It would be advisable to secure the AbbÉ Susini as a witness, she said. He was a busy man, and a journey to Bastia would of necessity take up his whole day. Denise did not offer to accompany her, so she set out alone at a quick pace, learnt, no doubt, in the Rue des Saints PÈres.

“They will not shoot at an old woman,” she said, and never looked aside.

The priest's housekeeper received her coldly. Yes the abbÉ was at home, she said, holding the door ajar with scant hospitality. Mademoiselle pushed it open and went into the narrow passage. She had not too much respect for a priest, and none whatever for a priest's housekeeper, who kept a house so badly. She looked at the dirty floor, and with a subtle feminine irony, sought the mat which was lying in the road outside the house. She folded her hands at her waist, and still grasping her cheap cotton umbrella, waited to be announced.

The AbbÉ Susini received her in his little bare study, where a few newspapers, half a dozen ancient volumes of theology and a life of Napoleon the Great, represented literature. He bowed silently and drew forward his own horsehair armchair. Mademoiselle Brun sat down, and crossed her hands upon the hilt of her umbrella like a soldier at rest under arms. She waited until the housekeeper had closed the door and shuffled away to her own quarters. Then she looked the resolute little abbÉ straight in the eyes.

“Let us understand each other,” she said.

“Bon Dieu! upon what point, mademoiselle?”

Mademoiselle was still looking at him. She perceived that there were some points upon which the priest did not desire to be understood. She held up one finger in its neutral-coloured cotton glove, and shook it slowly from side to side.

“None of your theology,” she said; “I come to you as a man—the only man I think in this island at present.”

“At present?”

“Yes, the other is in France, recovering from his wounds.”

“Ah!” said the abbÉ, glancing shrewdly into her face. “You also have perceived that he is a man—that. But there is our good Colonel Gilbert. You forget him.”

“He would have made a good priest,” said mademoiselle, bluntly, and the abbÉ laughed aloud.

“Ah! but you amuse me, mademoiselle. You amuse me enormously.” And he leant back to laugh at his ease.

“Yes, I came on purpose to amuse you. I came to tell you that Denise Lange has sold Perucca to Colonel Gilbert.”

“Sacred name of—thunder,” he muttered, the mirth wiped away from his face as if with a cloth. He sat bolt upright, glaring at her, his restless foot tapping on the floor.

“Ah, you women!” he ejaculated after a pause.

“Ah, you priests!” returned Mademoiselle Brun, composedly.

“And you did not stop it,” he said, looking at her with undisguised contempt.

“I have no control. I used to have a little; now I have none.”

She finished with a gesture, describing the action of a leaf blown before the wind.

“But I have put off the signing of the papers until Wednesday,” she continued. “I have undertaken to provide two witnesses, yourself if you will consent, the other—I thought we might get the other from FrÉjus between now and Wednesday. A boat from St. Florent to-night could surely, with this wind, reach St. Raphael to-morrow.”

The abbÉ was looking at her with manifest approval.

“Clever,” he said—“clever.”

Mademoiselle Brun rose to go as abruptly as she had come.

“Personally,” she said, “I shall be glad to be rid of Perucca for ever—but I fancied there are reasons.”

“Yes,” said the priest, slowly, “there are reasons.”

“Oh! I ask no questions,” she snapped out at him with her hand on the door. On the threshold she paused. “All the same,” she said, “I do ask a question. Why does Colonel Gilbert want to buy?”

The priest threw up his hands in angry bewilderment.

“That is it!” he cried. “I wish I knew.”

“Then find out,” said mademoiselle, “between now and Wednesday.”

And with a curt nod she left him.