When Honorat de Berrol entered Reine’s apartment, Stephanette wished to retire so as to leave the two lovers alone.

She took one step toward the door, but Reine said to her, quickly, in a voice full of emotion, “Remain.”

Then, scarcely able to control her feelings, she bowed her head and hid her face in her hands.

Honorat, astonished beyond expression, did not know what to think.

The Bohemian had closed the medallion containing the portrait of Erebus, and had placed it on the table.

The captain of the Holy Terror to the Moors vainly tried to catch Stephanette’s eye, but she seemed as anxious to avoid his glance.

Luquin Trinquetaille was the more sensible of her conduct inasmuch as he recognised on the Bohemian’s collar the flame-coloured ribbon, which was the exact counterpart of what Stephanette wore on her waist.

This observation on his part, together with several perfidious insinuations made by Master Laramée, who had just been taking a glass with Luquin, suddenly aroused the lover’s jealousy.

He looked at the Singer angrily, then, meeting Ste-phanette’s eyes by chance, he executed a most complicated pantomime with his left hand, which was meant to ask the young girl why the Singer had a ribbon like the one hanging from her ruff.

As this pantomimic performance made it necessary for the worthy captain to put his hand to his collar quite often, Stephanette whispered to him, with the most innocent tone in the world, “Are you suffering from a sore throat, M. Luquin?”

These words of the mischievous girl, while they excited the captain’s anger, seemed also to arouse Honorat from the astonishment produced by the strange reception of his betrothed.

He approached her, and said: “I am just from Marseilles, Reine, and I must speak to you on some very serious things concerning your father. Trinquetaille comes from La Ciotat and tells me that the affair of the fishery is threatening; the citizens seem to be irritated. In order to talk of all this we must be alone.”

At these words Reine raised her face bathed with tears, and with a sign ordered Stephanette to go out The girl obeyed, casting a sad look at her mistress.

Trinquetaille followed his betrothed with a very ungracious air, and the Bohemian accompanied them.

“Reine, in the name of Heaven, what is the matter with you?” cried Honorat, as soon as he was alone with Mlle, des Anbiez.

“Nothing,—nothing is the matter with me, my friend.”

“But you are weeping, your face is all tear-stained. What has happened, pray?”

“Nothing, I tell you,—mere childishness. The Bohemian sang a romance of his country for us; it was pathetic, and I allowed myself to be affected by it. But do not let us talk of this nonsense; let us talk of father. Is there any danger? Has his angry treatment of the recorder irritated the marshal? And what does Luquin say about the fishery? Honorat! Honorat! do answer me!”

“Listen to me, Reine; although those matters have assumed a grave, if not a dangerous aspect, let me first speak of what is above everything else,—my love for you.”

“Oh, Honorat! Honorat! what of my father?”

“Be calm, there is no immediate danger threatening the baron. The marshal has despatched two of his men to make inquiries about the facts.”

“But what does Luquin say about the fishery?”

“He comes to tell you that the consuls have returned the question with your father on the right of fishery to the overseers; so you see, Reine, that this news, although serious, has nothing threatening or alarming in it, and—”

“How do you think the marshal will consider my father’s conduct?” said Reine, hurriedly, again interrupting Honorat.

Her lover looked at her with as much surprise as sorrow.

“My God, Reine, what does that signify? Are we not to be united in a few days? at Christmas? Is it tiresome to you to hear me speak of my love for you?”

Reine uttered a sigh, and looked down without replying.

“Listen, Reine,” cried Honorat, with bitterness; “for a month now, there is something in you which is inexplicable; you are no longer the same, you are distracted, preoccupied, taciturn; when I speak to you of our approaching marriage, of our plans, of our future, you answer me with constraint. Again I say, this is not natural. What have you to reproach me for?”

“Nothing—oh, nothing, nothing, Honorat, you are the best, the noblest of men!”

“But, indeed, only eight days ago, you yourself formally announced to your father your desire that our marriage should take place at Christmas, even if circumstances should prevent the attendance of your uncles, the commander and Father Elzear!”

“That is true.”

“Well, then, have you changed your mind? Do you wish to postpone it? You do not answer me. My God! what does that mean? Reine, Reine! Ah, I am unhappy indeed!”

“My friend, do not despond so; have pity on me. Wait, I am foolish. I am unworthy of your affection. I annoy you,—you are so good, so noble!”

“But tell me what is the matter with you? What do you wish?”

“I do not know. I suffer—I—Wait, I tell you. I am foolish and weak and very miserable, believe me.” She hid her face in her hands. Honorat, at the height of astonishment, looked at her with an expression of distress.

“Ah,” cried he, “if I were less acquainted with the purity of your heart, if evidence even did not prevent the least suspicion, I would believe that a rival had supplanted me in your affection. But no, no, if that were true, I know your sincerity,—you would confess it to me without a blush, because you are incapable of making an unworthy choice. But then, what is it? A month ago, you loved me so much, so you said,—what have I done in one month to deserve such punishment from you? Ah, it is enough to make one insane!”

And Honorat de Berrol, a prey to violent grief, plunged almost into despair, walked up and down the room in silence.

Reine, overwhelmed, did not dare utter a word. She was almost on the point of confessing all to Honorat, but shame restrained her, and besides, she could not distinctly understand her own impressions.

The recital by the Bohemian, the wonderful accident which had just placed the portrait of the unknown before her eyes, increased the curiosity and romantic interest that she felt concerning the stranger, in spite of herself.

But was this sentiment love? Again, who was this man? The Bohemian called him the emir of his tribe, but at Marseilles, he and his two companions had passed for Muscovites; how c............