The scene of our story changes for a time from smoky London to a lonely road close to the sea-coast of Normandy. It is the sunset of a rainy day, a fierce red light beats down on the yellow colza fields, sprinkled with great bells of crimson poppy; on the deep, wind-swept patches of yellow wheat; on the little villages embowered in foliage, each with its old-fashioned auberge and its glittering spire.

An open post-chaise, drawn by a pair of heavy horses, is flying seaward, towards the marine town of Fécamp. Side by side within it sit two figures, a very young lady, wrapped in a fur-lined silk cloak, and a tall, haggard-looking man of thirty, with very long hair and a jet-black moustache.

Every now and again the man leans forward and urges on the driver, then, after a quick glance on the road, which winds far away behind them, he sinks back upon his seat.

They halt and change horses in a quaint little village, where old women and maidens ply their antique spinning-wheels at the cottage doors, and blue-bloused loungers puff their sous cigars on wooden forms before the auberge. They do not alight, but the gentleman brings the lady a tiny glass of the liqueur called ‘Bénédictin,’ and some wine biscuits. She sips the liqueur and breaks a biscuit, while the loungers in blue blouses look on in admiration.

The young lady is very pale, and looks so young that the loungers whisper wonderingly at each other. Now and then her lip quivers, and her eyes fill with tears. The gentleman with her watches her anxiously, trying to anticipate every look and wish, but she scarcely looks at him—her thoughts are far away.

‘How far to Fécamp?’ the gentleman asks of the ostler, as he slips the pour-boire into his hand; and when he finds that it is still many kilometres away, and that it is impossible to reach it in less than three or four hours, he mutters an imprecation.

There is a quick, cat-like look in his eyes, as he converses with the world at large; but when he turns to his companion the look is exchanged for one of touching humility and sweetness.

They are ready to start again, the driver is in his place, when the young lady springs up and cries in French, ‘Arrêtez!’ The gentleman, who is again seated by her side, looks at her in astonishment, ‘Madeline! mon ange!’

She answers him in English.

‘It is not too late—let us turn and go back. I am sorry now I came away. Monsieur Belleisle, I insist on turning back.’

‘Mais non!’

‘Madame Collemache will forgive me—I will go upon my knees and ask her—Madame is a good woman. Oh, why did you ask me to do anything so foolish? Look how these people are staring! Turn back at once!’

But, at a sign from the gentleman, the driver has started off, and they are soon leaving the village at full gallop. To comfort her, Monsieur slips his hand round her waist. He is not prepared for the result, which came in the shape of a sharp slap in the face from the little gloved hand.

‘How dare you? I will not be pulled about, and I will go back to Madame. If you are a gentleman you will take me back at once.’

Monsieur rubs his cheek and tries to smile, but there is an angry light in his eyes nevertheless.

‘You are cruel, and I—ah, how I love you! Have you not promised to be my little wife? Mine own Madeline!’

He is about to embrace her again, but the look in her face deters him.

‘I was angry with Madame because I thought her cruel and unjust. She made me mad, and so I listened to you. Drive me back, Monsieur, and I will like you very much. I will take all the blame upon myself—only drive me back.’

‘Do not speak so,’ is the reply. ‘We love each other—we will be happy—ah, so happy—-with one another. Madeline! my bride!’

‘I have changed my mind. I will not marry you, Monsieur Belleisle!’

‘Ah ciel, you do not mean what you say!’

‘I do mean it. Why should I marry you? I do not like you. I shall hate you soon.’

‘It is too late to say that.’

‘But it is true.’

‘Ah, I will not beliefe it! You are triste—the journey make you triste and fatiguée—to-morrow you will smile again upon your own Auguste.’

‘Pray don’t talk nonsense,’ answered the young lady. ‘I liked you very well when you gave me my lessons, and last night in my anger, in my wickedness, I thought I would come with you, because I wished to be revenged on Madame and Mademoiselle Blanche. But now I have repented, Monsieur. I was a little fool, and I will beg their pardon. They have been very kind to me. I was ungrateful. I will return.’

All this in an impetuous stream, half soliloquy, half entreaty. In her passion and excitement the girl looks very lovely, and the Frenchman gazes at her in growing admiration. Then a thought seems to strike him, and he looks at her slyly and smiles.

‘Why are you laughing, Monsieur?’ she cries.

‘I was thinking, mignonne, how ridiculous you would look if you returned. Ah, Dieu, how they would laugh!’ This is a move in the right direction. The young lady cannot bear ridicule, and she frowns at the very thought of it. For some minutes she seems plunged in bitter reflection; then she speaks again.

‘No, I am not afraid,’ she cries; ‘I do not fear any but Madame, and when I have apologised she will take my part. Oh, why did I come with you? why did I think of running away?’

‘Because you love me, mon ange!’

‘Love you, Monsieur Belleisle? I like you better than Herr Bunsen, because he is always cross and stupid and you are good-tempered. And I thought you handsome. Well, I did not know my mind. I will not marry you—the thought is ridiculous. You are thirty years old, and I do not like Frenchmen.’

Despite her protestations, the post-chaise still continues its wild career. It is dark at last, and the darkness is deepened by long avenues of spectral fir-trees which line the road on either side. A diligence passes swiftly by, with murmur of voices and jingling of bells.

As night comes on the girl grows frightened, shrinks away from her companion, and sobs bitterly. He tries to comfort her with embraces and loving words, but she avoids his touch, and rejects all his consolations.

If there were enough light to show his face, it would reveal an aspect almost Mephistophelean in its cat-like expression. His long fingers close and unclose nervously; he would like to use force, but he lacks the courage.

At last he wins her to comparative quiescence by proving to her that return is impossible before the morrow, and by promising that when the morrow comes he will, if she still wishes it, see her safely back to school. With this poor comfort she is obliged to be content; for the house she left at daybreak lies thirty miles behind, and it would be useless to turn thither now.

Presently the lights of a town gleam before them, and, after rattling through som............