"I must have you decidedly on my side then. I must be enabled to offer her a great inducement. If, for instance, I could tell her that you had made up your mind to come and live in Norfolk, she might say yes."

"Ah! but she would have to make up her mind first. See Maurice," she broke in abruptly, "what is that little building on the other side the road? There are some people who look like English going in."

"Don't mind that now, I want to talk to you."

"We have been talking. Only tell me what it is?"

"It is a chapel built on the place where the Duke of Orleans was killed some years ago."

"I remember now somebody told me about it; his monument is there."

"Very likely. I know nothing about it."

"Oh, Maurice! to speak in that tone, when it was such a sad thing."

"There are so many sad things--one cannot pity everybody."

"You are cross this morning. What is the matter?"

"Nothing. What do you want me to do?"

"Just now I want you to take me in there. I see it is open."

There was no help; the moment was gone. Lucia's head was full of the unhappy Duke of Orleans, and it would, have been very bad policy, Maurice thought, to oppose her whim. He rang the bell, and they were admitted without difficulty into the open space in front of the chapel.

The old man who let them in pointed to the half-open door, and, saying that his wife was in there with a party, retreated, and left them to find their own way into the building itself. They passed quietly through the entrance and into the soft grey light of the chapel. Lucia stopped only to take one glance of the tiny interior, so coldly mournful with its black draperies and chill white and grey marble, and then passed round to examine more closely the monument which marks the very spot where the fatal accident occurred. Maurice followed her. They stood half concealed by the monument, and speaking low, while the tones of other voices could be distinctly heard from the recess behind the altar where the English visitors were examining the picture of the Duke's death.

There was one rather high-pitched female voice which broke the solemn stillness unpleasantly, and as it became more audible, Lucia laid her hand softly on Maurice's arm to make him listen, and looked up in his face with eyes full of laughter. The lady was talking French to the guide with a strong English accent and in a peculiar drawl, which had a very droll effect. It was a manner new to them both, though Maurice could not help thinking, as he listened, of Percy in his worst moods.

"I am glad to have seen it," the voice said, "and quite by chance, too; it is excessively interesting, so melancholy. Ah! you say that they laid him just there? It makes one shudder! No, I will not go near the place; it is too shocking."

At the last words Maurice and Lucia saw the speaker emerge from behind the altar on the side furthest from where they stood. She was a tall woman, neither young nor pretty, but very fashionable--distinguished, Lucia supposed she should be called; and but for the peculiarity of her voice, would have made a favourable rather than an unfavourable impression on a stranger. She stopped just at the top of the steps, and turned round to speak again to some one behind her who was still concealed by the altar. This time she spoke English in a lower tone, and with a greater drawl.

"Really, Edward," she said, "it is very small. Pray don't give the woman much; you know how heavy our expenses are. I think I ought to carry the purse."

"As you please, my dear; it would save me trouble, certainly."

At the sound of that second voice Maurice started and looked at Lucia.

She had suddenly grasped at the stonework before her, and stood looking with passionate eagerness over the carved figure of the dying Duke towards the altar. He almost shuddered at the intensity of that gaze--the rigidity of intolerable suspense in her whole figure; but he could only be still and watch her.

The unconscious Englishwoman moved on; close behind her, following her with his old languid manner, came the man Lucia was watching for--Edward Percy.

Still she never stirred. They passed down the chapel with her eyes upon them, but they never saw her, and she made no sound or movement. Only when they were no longer in sight, everything seemed to grow suddenly black and confused about her--her hold upon the marble relaxed, and she would have fallen if Maurice had not gently supported her, and drawn her to a seat close by.

She did not faint, though she was cold and white and powerless. After a minute Maurice, bending over her, saw that she was trying to speak. Her lips seemed stiff and hardly able to form the words, but he made out,

"Who is she?"

He hesitated a moment; but she saw that he _could_ answer, and her eyes insisted on her question.

"She is his wife," he answered; "they were married, I believe, a month or six weeks ago."

Suddenly, at his words, the blood seemed to rise with one quick rush to her very temples.

"You knew," she said, "and would not tell me!"

Then after her momentary anger came shame, bitter and intolerable, for her self-betrayal. She bent down her face on her hands, but her whole figure shook with violent agitation. Maurice suffered scarcely less. His love for her gave him a comprehension of all, and a sympathy unspeakable with her pain. He laid his hand lightly on her shoulder as he had often done in her childish troubles, but one word escaped him which he had never spoken to her before,

"My darling! my darling!"

Perhaps she did not hear it; but at least she understood that through all the pang of her loss, there remained with her one faithful and perfect affection; and even at that moment she was unconsciously comforted.

But the Percys were gone, and the guide was coming back into the chapel after a word or two at the door with her husband; Maurice had to decide instantly what to do. He said to Lucia,

"Wait here for me," and then going forward to meet the woman, he contrived to make her comprehend that the lady was ill; and that he was going for a carriage. He then hurried out, and Lucia was left alone in the chapel with the good-natured Frenchwoman, who looked at her compassionately and troubled her with no questions.

For a few minutes the poor child remained too bewildered to notice anything; but when at last she raised her head, and saw that Maurice was not there, she grew frightened. Had she been so childish and uncontrolled as to have disgusted even him? Had he left her, too? She tried to get up from her seat, but she could not stand. The guide saw her attempt, and thought it time to interfere.

"Monsieur would be back immediately," she said. "He was gone for a carriage. It was unfortunate madame should be taken ill so suddenly."

Lucia smiled a very miserable kind of smile.

"Yes," she answered, "it was unfortunate, but it was only a little giddiness."

And there she broke off to listen to the sound of wheels which stopped at the gate.

It was Maurice; and at the sight of him Lucia felt strong again. She rose and met him as he came towards her.

"I have got a carriage," he said. "We had walked too far. Can you go to it?"

She could find nothing to say in answer. He made her lean on his arm, and took her across the court and put her into the vehicle.

"Would you rather go alone?" he asked her.

"Oh! no, no," she cried nervously, and in a minute afterwards they were on their way homewards.

When they had started, she put her hand to her head confusedly.

"Is not it strange?" she said half to herself. "I was sure we should meet in Paris; only I never guessed it would be to-day. Across a grave, that was right."

Maurice shuddered at her tone; it sounded as if she were talking in her sleep.

"Dear Lucia," he said, "scold me, be angry with me. I should have told you."

She seemed to wake at the sound of his voice, and again that burning, painful flush covered her face and neck.

"Oh! Maurice," she cried, "it is you who should scold me. What must you think? But, indeed, I am not so bad as I seem."

"It is I who have been blind. I thought you had forgotten him."