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 106 DEATH IN LIFE.

sentiments. Only Leon was silent, and the marquis, fixing his piercing eyes upon him, saw that his face was white as marble, and his lips close- set and ashy pale.

Still more profoundly convinced of the truth of his suspicions, the marquis returned to his fair, young wife, and at midnight they set forth on their journey, with flaring torches, and numerous out- riders. As the cumbrous coach rolled through the city-gates, a man, muffled in a cloak, started from the shadow of an arch, and stood for a moment near. His face was invisible, but something in his figure and carriage recalled Saint Evremonde's to the mind of the marquis. Vivienne had been leaning forward, gazing fromthe window. Perhaps the red glare of the torches fell just then upon her face, but it seemed to her husband that a deep flush came hotly to her cheeks for an instant-the next moment she sunk back in the carriage with a sigh, and soon many miles lay between the travelers and the gates of Paris.

The life at Hautlieu was pleasant, indeed, to Madame de Beranger. She was fast becoming a feeble invalid, and once established in a large, sunny chamber in the chateau, she rarely left it, save for a slow walk upon the terrace with the aid of her daughter's arm. Vivienne de voted herselfto her mother. She read, and sang, and talked to her, or she sat quietly embroidering by her side, and listened with ready smiles to Madame de Beranger's praises of her exemplary son-in-law, and her thankfulness that heaven had given so kind a protector, so noble a husband to the daughter whom she felt that she must soon leave.

And Vivienne listened, and kept steady silence about the awful change which had befallen her husband. She would not disturb the tranquil happiness of her mother's life by the knowledge that her life had become one long torture ; that day and night she felt herself watched with suspicion, and hated by her husband ; that no words of kindness, nothing beyond the barest, coldest courtesies of life were ever addressed to her by the marquis ; that the chateau was a prison, beyond whose walls she was not permitted to stir without an attendant, whom she knew was a paid spy ; and that her tears, her prayers for an explanation, and her entreaties for the pardon of her unknown offence, were met with cold, contemptuous sneers, or stern commands of silence. It was horrible, this consciousness of being forever watched. She had discovered that when the marquis himself was not with her, she was under the surveillance of a person whom she specially disliked, and who as heartily hated her. This person was Monsieur Duroc, the secretary of the marquis, at whose expense Vivienne had once indulged in some childish merriment, and who, in spite of her sincere apology, had always secretly hated, while openly flattering, the marquise. Now she was conscious that this man was set to watch her. Into whatever room or saloon of the chateau she might enter, save her own private apartments, she was almost sure to see a figure stealing noiselessly as a shadow between her and the sunlight, and the white face and black eyes of Duroc would gleam out as he bowed obsequiously, and glided to a seat in a distant corner of the room.

When she walked in the grounds, Duroc glided as near her as etiquette would permit. Even now, on this sweet September evening, as she sauntered on the terrace beneath the windows of her own apartments, she was not sure that the evil eyes of Duroc were not fastened upon her from some secret turret window, or other lurking-place.

Ah! unhappy Child Marquise!" Her cheek no longer glowed with bright roses; her eyes sparkled no more: her step had lost its airy buoyancy, her voice its joyous ring. Sad, pallid, yet lovely as a dream of heaven still, she walked with bowed head in the dying sunlight, and the "Hautlieu rubies" lay like drops of blood on her fair bosom.

She was walking there, waiting till she should be summoned to meet her husband and a guest whom he had told her to prepare for. Gues's were not unfrequent at the chateau, and the marquis entertained them with great magnificence, his lovely young wife always presiding at the entertainment with quict grace and dignity. No one guessed the deep sadness of her heart, and to none on earth would she reveal it.

While she paused beside a vase of glowing geranium, and mechanically gathered one of its blossoms, her husband's voice startled her. Never had it sounded so harsh and cold.

"Madame," he said, " Monsieur de Saint Evremonde has arrived, and is waiting for you in the grand saloon. Will you go and receive him?"

A faint color came into her cheek- n color so faint that it might have been a reflection from the rosy sunset clouds, and into her eyes flashed a strange brightness, while the hand that she laid upon his ceremoniously proffered arm trembled with repressed emotion. The marquis said not a word, but led her into the grand saloon. There, by a distant window, stood a gentleman, who advanced to meet them, bowing low—a tall,