that makes a man tear the bandage from his wound, spell out deliberately the sentence that condemns him?

'Why, my child, you are fiancée. You must marry soon. Hervé must be impatient.'

The words stuck in my throat. I rose impatiently and looked out of window. He was there, at the wine-shop opposite, smoking over his demi-litre. She spoke; I would not look at her.

'Monsieur, Monsieur Ste-phen' -shyly and hesitatingly she pronounced the English name-'don't think wrong of me. I am fiancéewhat they call fiancée, I suppose; but-but-oh, I can't marry him —I can't, I can't!'

I turned. She was crying-not with sobs or gasps, but crying as though some cold crust of pride were melting away, as though her poor child's heart was breaking too. The struggle was over. I could not help it. I took her hands and drew her to me.

'Mignonne, mignonne, tu dois m'aimes un peu ; je t'aime moi à en devenir fou.'

Not even now would I have that moment otherwise. Her class does not cultivate the art of appearing 'so surprised' at a declaration like that I had just made. There is a primitive frankness in its welcome and rebuff. She gave herself up entirely forgot the mother in the courtyard, the cousin over the way and returned my kiss without shame or shrinking. It was I who first awoke to a perception of the dangers of the situation. I raised my eyes from her face to meet Hervé's gaze turned interrogatively in our direction.

'It's only the cousin,' she said, smiling.

The cousin crossed the road, entered the room, and uttered his usual 'Bon soir, la compagnie,' with an air of surly suspicion. That

suspicion, I saw, became certainty -certainty of his defeat-after he had scanned our faces; and the handsome features of le cousin Hervé wore an unpleasant look as he retired with a muttered excuse.

'The cousin is not pleased,' I said; he guesses everything. He will watch us. Where can we meet, chérie ?-on the ramparts, where I saw you first ?'

She shook her head decisively. 'Not there! It is too cold-too far. On the road to Puys.'

Then she added seriously,

'But why should Hervé watch us? He will know everything shortly. Why should we hide? Le père must know.'

Ay, why should we hide? I did not answer her question then, for madame appeared with an armful of damp linen; and up-stairs I found it difficult to frame a satisfactory response even to myself. The père must know. Of course

he must; and so must Henry Vallance, of Vallance Place, Hants, J.P., and my club friends, and the major part of those irresponsible directors of public opinion whom I chatted with in the stalls on first nights. I began to realise the practical meaning of the scene just enacted. I did not regret one word of my part in it; I did not hesitate; I had not one doubt of her or of myself for one instant. Of that I am convinced. But I was embarrassed with my happiness. I knew not how to fit it into my life, to give it breathing-room in the moving, modern, artificial existence that I must, sooner or later, resume. I could not picture myself presenting Annette in a bonnet to Gaunt of the Thunderer, escorting her to the Academy, following her train between the stalls at the Opera. What would the half-dozen supremely self-satisfied country families with which the Vallances are connected think of Mrs. Stephen

Vallance? Mrs. Stephen Vallance! Could the little Normande, in frilled cap and worsted stockings, ever present a piece of pasteboard bearing those syllables? And the financial side of the question was quite as distracting. I was to all appearance a parti for the Pollet. But in truth I could not determine how the parti was to describe his means of existence to the beau-père; and I winced as I bestowed that august title on M. le Houx.

But I had forgotten all the difficulties when I met her, on the afternoon of the next day, on the road to Puys-a steep bleak road skirting the cliffs, winding, dipping, and rising as though it had been designed by half a dozen officials of the Ponts et Chaussées, utterly at variance as to where it should go. Annette had not forgotten her question, however. She took my arm with proud elation, and wanted to know whether I was very spirituel when I wrote, and if I ever talked about things she could understand.

I described literature as a profession as clearly and succinctly as I could; and, divested of the lofty adjectives with which we usually ornament the subject, it looked wonderfully like any other business.

'But you are rich, and so young! It must be delightful to write. See the père; he has been working more than forty years; and what has he got?-a méchante barque de pécheur or two.'

'Annette dear, indeed I am not rich-indeed you must not believe that. I have scarcely a hundred pounds in the world. I write for my living-my living is not your father's, you know. If Hervé, for instance, had been brought up as I have been, he couldn't have lived for a month as he has been living for years.'

to give him- not even a white hand he'd not be ashamed of.'

And she extended her hand disparagingly. As I kissed it, she said softly,

'I have only my love.' She resumed in a moment: 'But you have de la famille? You are not quite alone?'

'I have an uncle-a milord rich and mighty. But we quarrelled: he insulted me. I would rather die than ask anything of him.'

And I told her the story of the feud. How her cheeks flamed! how the pride of her race spoke in the soft brown eyes! When I finished she threw her arms about my neck, and cried indignantly,

'Moi je l'aurai tué, le lâche! And he bears your name!'

'Henry Vallance, Vallance Place, Hants,' I answered, laughing at her vehement denunciation.

The novel progressed rapidly. My love, the new gladness of my life, gave me courage-gave me genius, perhaps, for the moment. For once I could read what I had written and feel satisfied. It was arranged that I should speak to Le Houx directly the book was in the printer's hands. It was approaching completion, when I suddenly stopped short at an incident that necessitated some practical experience of a fisherman's life at sea. I was at the Grand Café-the café favoured by officers of the garrison -when Lieutenant Chasseloup suddenly observed, between two absinthes,

'There's a stupid account in the Gaulois of a night passed on board a fishing-smack. I have done the thing myself; the writer's quite wrong.'

I had become slightly acquainted with the lively lieutenant of Chasseurs, who saluted me on my arrival. He was Parisian, knew a little English, was well versed in

Paul de Kock, and altogether seemed something of a living link between my present life and civilisation.

'Indeed!' I exclaimed; and an easy solution of my literary difficulty presented itself to my mind. 'I should like to try a night at sea on board a smack. Would a fisherman take me, do you think?'

'I don't know. They're a terribly independent lot. They won't accept any money for the favour, and hate to have a bourgeois in their way.'

'But if you could present me to the skipper who accommodated you.'

'Willingly. But, au fait, you know him. It is Hervé le Houx.'

My friend the lieutenant knew more about me than I had told him. He added apologetically,

'I see Le Houx now and then; he brings fish for the mess to the castle. I think he told me you were staying at his uncle's house.' I assented.

'Ask Hervé-he'll be delighted; and now is your time. The nights are dark. It will be picturesque en diable.

I adopted his suggestion, and the next day asked Hervé on what night he could receive me. He had accomplished the nightly piquet as regularly as ever during the foregoing month, but he had not the same air of stolid confidence; and moreover I was told he had begun to drink abnormal quantities of the thin Dieppe piquette obtained from the slopes surrounding the town. It seemed a cruel injustice to ascribe any moral phenomenon to the influence of the local vintage. You must be Dieppois, and possessed moreover of a strong determination to avoid the ennui of going to bed slightly sober, before you can order the thin claret sold in the Pollet with anything like confidence as to the result. Having

made up your mind, having resolved upon inebriety at any cost, you can achieve your purpose after several hours of strenuous ingurgitation. With patience and practice, I suppose a man could brutalise himself with fleur d'oranges; a slightly smaller effort, and one can produce intoxication with the Pollet vin. I am unable to say whether Hervé made that effort frequently; but I heard at all hours M. le Houx lamenting to his wife and neighbours that the garçon was going wrong.' I had not much communication with the garçon, and was absolutely indifferent as to his moral transformation. He scowled at me now and then with a loose lumbering movement of his shoulders; but I regarded that as a natural and pardonable manifestation of jealousy. I knew that he had divined our secret, and I was puzzled to account for the fact that he had not divulged it. But in spite of surly looks and laconic answers, we were good friends enough to warrant me in requesting him to receive me on board the Vigie some dull December night, when the dangerous side of his profession would be most visible. He did not assent at first. My proposition appeared to trouble, even to irritate, him. There was not much room in the lugger; I should be put to serious inconvenience, taken from my work for a couple of days perhaps. And then, with a sidelong glance of suspicion, he added,

"And there is nothing worth seeing; that is to say, if monsieur only wants to join us en simple curieux.

'Surely,' I replied. I don't want to organise a smuggling expedition, and I have no piratical intentions with regard to the Vigie.'

'Very well,' he said reluctantly, 'as monsieur wishes; only I am afraid he will be disappointedvrai, I am afraid.'

On the night of Christmas-eve

I was up-stairs in my little room, abusing Marshal MacMahon, at two pounds a column, for a doctrinaire weekly of gloomy views on all subjects not connected with land-tenure reform, when I heard Hervé's voice below. He was hailing me.

'Monsieur Vallance! Cela va-t-il pour ce soir?'

I bade him come up. He was shiny and crackling in oilskin, and wore a fur cap with lappets. Annette had gone to the midnight Mass, having begged me not to accompany her. To be seen at church with a monsieur was a public announcement of a forthcoming marriage, or of something worse in the past. Hervé would not sit down, and declined the brandy-and-water I suggested as an appropriate refreshment in such weather.

'There's no time to lose,' he said awkwardly, watching me put a few things into a bag and struggle into top-boots and a pilot-coat. 'The tide will be out in an hour, and I must hurry on board. Claude and Barnabé aren't worth a liard left to themselves.'

Outside a thin drizzling rain was falling, like a substantial and peculiarly penetrating mist. Hervé explained that he hoped to be back by this time to-morrow night; and seeing what weather we were likely to have, I was rather pleased to reflect that my experience would last but twenty-four hours. I slipped and scrambled on to the deck of the lugger. Everything I touched was icy cold, sticky, and smelt of fish. Claude and Barnabé were at work at the windlass, lightening the labour with a lugubrious chant that to my mind suggested shipwreck, empty nets, every calamity incidental to navigation and fishing.

Once past Notre Dame de Bon Secour, where the sailors signed themselves; once at sea, plunging and rolling with cracking cordage

and groaning spars, I began to experience the restless longing of the landsman for something new-an incident, a danger the itching to do something, to free oneself from the paralysis of the mere passenger, conveyed inert from port to port like a bale of merchandise. Hervé was taciturn, and answered my questions as briefly as possible. The information extracted from Claude and Barnabé was conveyed in such an uncouth dialect, and enveloped in such an abundance of technicalities, that one must have studied the theory of navigation and lived in the Pollet for several years to be able to profit by it. I turned in at dawn, stretched myself (if the process of fitting oneself into the rough wooden coffin that served as bed can be so described) in the bunk prepared for me, and fell asleep, dreaming of the novel and Annette.

I awoke at midday. Hervé was sitting opposite me eating breadand-cheese, with a large clasp-knife open before him. He said nothing as I sat up, yawned, and proceeded to draw on my boots, but shut his knife quickly, and put it in his pocket.

'Well, what fortune ?' I said. cheerily, opening my bag and extracting therefrom Lyons sausage sandwiches and three bottles of Burgundy, with which I purposed regaling the crew.

Oh, good,' he answered; 'a fine haul at every coup

He

I offered my provisions. shook his head and finished his bread-and-cheese. The wine tempted him, I could see, but he refused it. Did some old social law of the Pollet forbid a man to break bread or touch glasses with his rival? We mounted the steep companionladder together. The sea was gray and sullen; the night would be squally. I could see the dim uncertain line of the Sussex coast.

a dot or two in the distance—that was all. The nets came up at regular intervals full, as the skipper had said. Claude and Barnabé were scaly from head to foot, like very swarthy and dirty harlequins. I saw shining quivering masses in the baskets in the tank. I began to perceive that the realities of the hardy fisher's life are not exactly photographed by Opéra Comique librettists.

This Christmas-day was the longest I ever spent. I essayed a little fishing on my own account, and gave it up in despair. When night came on I introduced my Burgundy to MM. Claude and Barnabé, and Hervé completed the feast with a flask of brandy. The skipper did not seem afraid of what was likely to ensue he remained on deck. There was nothing festive about his speech or manner, albeit I noticed that during the day he took frequent pulls at a stone jar that emitted strong spirituous odours. The men were becoming noisy, and their patois was not rendered more intelligible by brandy and Burgundy. I went on deck, and found that we were making for Dieppe, but very slowly. Hervé was at the helm; the breeze was freshening every moment, and the lugger quivered and plunged under shortened sail. I stood in the bows and watched the white crests divide, with showers of spray, hissing and spitting as our stem cut through them. Then a man came from below and took the helm, and Hervé was beside me, sullenly staring into the sullen

you.' He looked up; I could not see his face, but it scowled threateningly, I was sure. He said slowly, chewing his words,

'And Annette is praying for her beau monsieur out in the storm.'

I thought the stone jar had taken effect, and answered tranquilly,

Annette's prayers don't matter to you or to me. Turn in and get some rest; you'll need your strength to-night.'

'I have watched you-watched you night and day; I have seen it all-the pretty scènes d'amour on the road over the cliffs.'

He was sober, and in earnest. 'Well, what of that? You have played the spy. You know that she will be my wife; that is enough. No more of her from you to me.'

'Bah! your love-making-what do I care about it? It isn't that, man. I was to marry Annette,' he went on doggedly; 'the père Le Houx is à son aise. I should have had his schooner, built in '68, La Marianne; I should have gone to Holland-to Sweden-been quit of this cursed herring and mackerel. Corps de Dieu! and you have stolen it all!'

'Annette's well rid of you, if that is all you regret.'

'Listen. We are making for Newhaven; you will land there. Below you will take pen and ink and write to her, saying that you can't marry her; and you'll swear by your Virgin, if you have got one, never to return to Dieppe. Do you hear?'

'I hear. You are mad. I shall land at Newhaven, if you like, but to take the steamer to Dieppe.'

'You will never land anywhere!' And his hand was at my throat, bending me backwards over the bulwark, pressing me into the jaws of death. I could not cry out; I was half strangled; the salt spray blinded me. I struck out desperately at hazard, and then there