If any one had informed Henri d'Estreville on the morning when, departing for the war, he took a somewhat affectionate farewell of Louise DuprÉ, that his strange sensation of particular tenderness for the girl would not only prove an abiding sensation, but would actually develop into something remarkably like the tender passion itself, and that without any further communication, meanwhile, with the object of his affection, he would have laughed the idea to scorn.

It was not in accordance with Henri's temperament that his heart should linger over soft recollections of charms which his eyes no longer beheld. If Chloe were absent, Phyllis, who was present, would fill her place excellently well. No woman had as yet proved herself essential to him. He took his pleasure from the society of the other sex where and when he found it, and this sufficed.

But somehow the memory of Louise had lingered. Perhaps the combination of certain womanly qualities with her splendid skill and courage in manly exercises had impressed him. Certainly he had not forgotten her magnificent eyes, he often recalled these when his recollection of her other features had faded. Louise had made no secret of her preference for Henri over every other man of her acquaintance. That alone, however, would not have greatly attracted the Baron, for he was a favourite with the sex, and Louise was not the first who had been simple enough to lay bare to him her heart of hearts.

"I am a fool," thought Henri; "but there is no doubt that I wish to see her. Perhaps the best medicine for my sickness will be to do so as soon as possible. Probably the first glance will disenchant me. I have somehow, and most foolishly, so embellished my recollections of her that I am remembering an ideality! The reality will soon set me right again!"

Thus it was that one morning as old Pierre sat with his daughter Marie, Louise being absent with Karl Havet, a servant announced the Baron Henri d'Estreville.

"Who is he?" said old Pierre, frowning; "I do not remember to have had a pupil of that name!"

"Ask the Baron to wait a moment in the salon," said Marie. "Do you not remember, father?" she continued, laughing, when the servant had disappeared. "This is a very beautiful young man, and in one respect at least, unique as well."

"Unique?" repeated DuprÉ; "and how so?"

"In that he is the only male being who ever succeeded in causing our Louise an extra pulse-beat or two. Have you forgotten how she nearly lost her heart, and how distressed you were, just before her departure for the war?"

"Sapristi—I remember the fool. What has he come for, think you?"

"To seek Louise, doubtless. He will find that she is none the softer for her warfaring. I am not sorry she is from home, however, the sight of him might not be good for her, mon pÈre. It would be a pity if her career were spoiled for the sake of a Henri d'Estreville, who, they say, is not too trustworthy."

"Oho!" said old Pierre; "is it so? He shall know that there is no longer a Louise DuprÉ to listen to his philandering."

This attitude did not bode well for Monsieur le Baron, who awaited Louise in the salon, more agitated than he would have believed possible.

"Monsieur will doubtless remember me," he explained; "it was I who brought Monsieur Paul de Tourelle, the only fencer—it is said—at whose hands Mademoiselle Louise was ever worsted."

"Ah, his was a fine hand with the foils!" said Pierre. "Yes, I remember well. Ha ha! in the first bout she scored twice with the feint flanconnade DuprÉ—a trick new to him and most successful; but after consideration he thought out a counter which was clever; I remember well. Does Monsieur le Baron come now as a pupil? Let me see, have we already enjoyed the honour of instructing Monsieur le Baron?"

"Monsieur, I have lately returned from the war; I have heard enough of the clash of swords to last me handsomely until the Emperor enters upon a new enterprise and one, let us hope, of better omen. I have come to pay my respects to a friend for whom I entertain feelings of the highest respect—it is Mademoiselle your daughter."

"Ah—Marie; she is within; I will tell her." Old DuprÉ shuffled off as though to fetch Marie.

"Pardon, Monsieur," said Henri, blushing; the old man was very dense. "You have another daughter; it is Mademoiselle Louise I mean!"

"Louise!" exclaimed DuprÉ, throwing up his hands; "Monsieur le Baron has not then heard that Louise is dead?"

"Grand Dieu, Monsieur, what are you saying?" exclaimed Henri; his cheek grew suddenly pale; his knees seemed to tremble beneath him; he had risen to his feet, but he sat down again hurriedly.

"She is dead, Monsieur; Louise is dead; she has ceased to exist; do I not express myself with sufficient clearness?"

"Monsieur will pardon my emotion—I had not heard," murmured Henri scarcely audibly. "My God, it is incredible; it is horrible; and I have so looked forward—Monsieur, how long since did this most lamentable event happen?"

"Nearly a year, Monsieur. I fail to remember that Monsieur's acquaintance with my daughter was particularly intimate."

"Monsieur DuprÉ," said Henri, finding his voice, "I did not mention the circumstance when I was here in May last for the reason that I had not then myself realised it; but it is nevertheless the truth that, short as was my acquaintance with Mademoiselle Louise, it was long enough to convince me that my heart had in Mademoiselle found its intimate, its complement, that in a word I loved Mademoiselle and must lay at her feet my life, my happiness. Monsieur, I was presumptuous enough to think that your daughter was not indifferent to me; her young heart had never, I believe, been assailed; I had the greatest hopes that she would listen favourably to my suit—we should, perhaps, have enjoyed wedded bliss; and I return to be informed by you that she is dead."

"Monsieur le Baron will forgive me," said old DuprÉ, "but those who know me are well aware that such matters as Monsieur speaks of meet with no sympathetic response from my side. It is my grievance against Destiny, Monsieur, that my children should have been females; Monsieur had not heard this? It is the truth. Consequently, having brought up my daughters as men and taught them the highest skill in manly exercises and to value such attainments more highly than the usual avocations of women, I have ever observed with repugnance any indications of a falling away of either of the girls towards the ordinary womanly foolishness of a desire for love and courtship and such things. Which being the case, Monsieur, I can only reply to your rhapsodical utterances by saying that I thank Heaven Louise ceased to exist in time. I would not have had her exposed to such a declaration as you intended, I suppose, to make to her this day, for ten times the inducements Monsieur could offer."

Henri was silent. The old man's lack of sympathy mattered very little beside the greater fact: the fact of the death of Louise, which Henri felt to be a disaster of the first magnitude; too great, indeed, to be altogether realised so suddenly. Here was a grievance against Destiny, indeed! For once in his life the Baron had come very near to falling honestly in love, and this was the result; it was too appalling, too unfortunate for belief.

"Mademoiselle must have died soon after I left for the war," he murmured. "Was she long ill, Monsieur?"

"Louise died at the beginning of the war, Monsieur; she ceased to exist, I remember, on the day of the conscription in this quartier; her end was sudden; there was no illness."

"She did not, I suppose, leave messages for friends; words of remembrance and so forth—there was not time, perhaps?"

"Doubtless there was neither time nor inclination, Monsieur. Louise was happily but little disposed towards those follies of womankind to which I have made allusion."

"Pardon, Monsieur, I had reason to hope that in my own case Mademoiselle Louise had made an exception."

"Not so, Monsieur; believe me, you are mistaken."

"I think not, Monsieur. I may tell you, since Mademoiselle is dead and I break no confidence, that she had even confessed her love for me."

"Then, Sapristi, Monsieur le Baron, I repeat ten thousand times," cried old Pierre, banging the table with his fist, "that I thank Heaven my daughter ceased to exist before your return from the war. Monsieur le Baron will now understand my sentiments in this matter and will, I trust, for the future retain inviolate the secret he has been good enough to share with me."

Henri bowed and prepared to depart. The man was obviously crazy. Probably the death of Louise had overbalanced his reason. Henri remembered that he had heard long ago of his eccentricity with regard to his daughters and their sex.

"Monsieur will pardon my intrusion," he said politely; "he may rest assured that the secret made over to him shall henceforward remain inviolate in my breast."

When old Pierre returned to his daughter his face betrayed that he was in the best of spirits. He entered the room laughing and swearing round oaths.

"Âme de mon ÉpÉe!" he exclaimed; "I think we shall have no more visits from this suitor. The devil! He would have carried Louise from under our noses if we and she had been fools enough to let him. Thanks be to Heaven that Louise—if ever for a moment she wavered, as you seem to suppose—quickly recovered her balance. It was your example, Marie, fool that you made of yourself!" Marie laughed.

"You will sing a different song, my father," she said, "when you have a houseful of little grandsons to educate in the art of the sword. What did you tell the Baron?"

"The old tale—the same which we have told others, that Louise died long since. She 'ceased to exist,' that was my expression. Sapristi, it is the truth! Louise ceased to exist when Michel Prevost came into existence—is it not so? Ha! so it is!"