The dowager duchess turned livid through
her paint, but made no reply, and said insolently
to one of the ladies in waiting, "Light that
candle for me that is on the mantelpiece. It is
like sitting in a vault."

The lady so harshly bidden to do this servile
duty, performed it with an obsequious and unresisting
humility, and as she did so, a large moth,
with rich brown and yellow and mottled wings,
and a black and yellow speckled body, settled
on the wall before the light. It was a death's
head moth, with that curious mark that is vulgarly
supposed to resemble a skull unusually
conspicuous on its thorax. It uttered a faint
shrill plaintive cry like that of a mouse, and
flew back into the darkness. It passed close to
Mademoiselle Beatrice, wavered over to Professor
Mohrart, then brushed the face of the
ex-duchess with its wings, and settled on the
table before the young duke, who, snatching
the fan of a lady next him, struck at the moth
with such force that, though he missed the insect,
he snapped the stems of several wine-glasses.
The hidden tiger witliin him leaped out now as
he sprang up, threw down his chair, and tore at
the great crimson bell-rope, till the corridors
echoed airain. and half a dozen servants hurried
in with candelabra.

Madame la Duchesse," he said, petulantly,
to his mother, " you know I detest darkness,
yet you will force me to sit here to save half a
do/.en wax candles. We will not be controlled.
Charles, Louis, tell the major-domo we will
dine no more without lights, no, not even in
summer. There seems to be a doubt amongst
some of you who reigns at Eisenherz; you shall
soon learn. Mademoiselle Beatrice, I kiss
your hand. Ladies, adieu. Gentlemen, the
faro table is ready—let us try fortune again;
and you fellows, search the room and kill
that moth. I hate to have those things buzzing
about."

"Poor moth," thought the professor. " Poor
Eisenherz! That man will grow up a monster."

"That moth brings bad luck to some of us,"
said one of the footmen to another.

II. THE CUP OF CHOCOLATE.

Two things were well known to the meanest
lacqueys of the palace. First, that the dowager
duchess detested the intended marriage of her
stepson; secondly, that the quarrels between
the duke and his ambitious stepmother were
every day growing more embittered.

It was the evening of the day that the
duchess was to return from Schwarzstein. The
duke has come in tired from hunting, and retired
to his private apartment. In the embrasure
of a window in one of the brightly lit antechambers
sat the young physician, looking out
thoughtfully into the starry night, half sheltered
by a heavy crimson velvet curtain which
he held back from the mullioned panes.

"She loved me once," he thought. "She
told me she did, and I loved her, till her
father and the cruel world came between us.
Does she love me still? Oh, could I but learn
that!"

He started; for an icy hand like that of a
corpse had touched him on the shoulder. He
looked round. It was the duchess, who pointed
to the open door of an inner boudoir, and led
him in. She locked the door, and stood close
to the surprised professor.

"Professor Mohrart," she said, "you well
know how great a regard I feel for you. What
honours we have destined for you, you may
not know so well. We know you—wise,
faithful, and true; we would trust you with
an especial duty. We claim but one small
service."

The young physician bowed gravely.

"Madame la Duchesse," he said, "I am a
faithful servant of the house of Eisenherz.
Your wishes are laws. All that I can do, subservient
to my duty to God and man, I will do
to serve either you or the duke."

"Answer me first one question truly. You
did once love Mademoiselle Beatrice, the duke's
betrothed?"

The young man hesitated; then, with almost
a groan, he said, "I did."

"And you still love Beatrice Blossow?"

Professor Mohrart made no reply.

"You do love her. I have seen a letter
you wrote her, urging her to fly with you to
England, to escape the match she detested;
you see, I know all. You have her letter,
refusing to go, but professing unalterable
love for you. Give me that letter; you
are not rich. You shall have ten thousand
Friedrich d'ors for that mere small square of
pink paper."

The professor remained silent.

"You shall marry the daughter of the richest
noble in all Eisenherz."

"Madame la Duchesse," said the professor at
last, " you would prevent the marriage of the
duke, it is clear. Whatever I may or may not
have once felt, I now owe all humble homage
and duty to that beautiful and amiable lady,
and I will give you no help in this matter."

"You refuse, then?"

"I refuse."

"You defy my anger?"

"I neither defy it nor dread it. I refuse to
help you to prevent the marriage of the duke,
your stepson, with Mademoiselle Beatrice."

"You persist in that?"

"I do.*

"You love her, and yet you would marry her
to another! She loves you, yet prefers wealth
and a title. Bah!"

"No; she has forgotten me; and I wish her
to have that title, which is her ambition."

"And you deny recent letters?"

"I do. They may have been written, but
they have never reached me."

"And your own of the fourth of last month?"

"That I wrote, but Mademoiselle Beatrice
has not replied to me, Madame la Duchesse,
since I broke off the engagement on her not
answering my letter pressing her to fly at the
first rumour of the duke's attentions."