dy; I bring a
letter from the King, to request your aid in a matter that touches me
nearly.

'His Majesty shall be obeyed. Come you from him?

He was forced to reply to her inquiries after the poor King's health
before she opened the letter, taking it under her veil to read it; so
that as he stood, trembling, almost sickening with anxiety, and scarcely
able to breathe, he could see nothing but the black folds; and at her
low murmured exclamation he started as if at a cannon-shot.

'De Ribaumont!' she said; 'can it be--the child--of--of--out poor dear
little _pensionnaire_ at Bellaise?

'It is--it is!' cried Berenger. 'O Madame, you knew her at Bellaise?

'Even so,' replied the Prioress, who was in fact the Soeur Monique so
loved and regretted by Eustacie. 'I loved and prayed for her with all my
heart when she was claimed by the world. Heaven's will be done; but the
poor little thing loved me, and I have often thought that had I been
still at Bellaise when she returned she would not have fled. But of this
child I have no knowledge.

'You took charge of the babes of La Sablerie, Madame,' said Berenger,
almost under his breath.

'Her infant among those poor orphans!' exclaimed the Prioress, more and
more startled and amazed.

'If it be anywhere in this life, it is in your good keeping, Madame,'
said Berenger, with tears in his eyes. 'Oh! I entreat, withhold her no
longer.

'But,' exclaimed the bewildered nun, 'who would you then be, sir?

'I--her husband--widower of Eustacie--father of her orphan!' cried
Berenger. 'She cannot be detained from me, either by right or law.

'Her husband,' still hesitated Monique. 'But he is dead. The poor little
one--Heaven have mercy on her soul--wrote me a piteous entreaty, and
gave large alms for prayers and masses for his soul.

The sob in his throat almost strangled his speech. 'She mourned me to
the last as dead. I was borne away senseless and desperately wounded;
and when I recovered power to seek her it was too late! O Madame! have
pity--let me see all she has left to me.

'Is 