yellow moustache?, white teeth, and a false
smile. Let monsieur see his description, as
officially drawn up, with proper signalment.
Eyes, grey; nose, arched; height, medium;
hair, yellow; and the rest of it. We have
been travelling after him, monsieur."

I was now beginning to understand.

"Well," she went on, "we were hunting
that shadow up and down, tracking those
yellow moustaches hopelessly, without aid
from any one, for how long, Fanchonette?
Ah, for three years—yes! At the end of
three years, monsieur—three weary years—
we had hunted him down—tracked him
home. It was time, though: full time! We
had not strength for much more,
Fanchonette?"

"Where did you find him then, madame?"
I said.

"Ah! where? Why, in a lonely German
town, at the foot of the mountains. But what
use was it? We had no friends among the
great ones, and could not lay a finger on him
in that foreign country. All that was left
to us was to keep watch over him until
he should be drawn back again by his
destiny—as they say such men always are
drawn—to his own country. How long
did we keep watch over him, there,
Fanchonette?"

"For ten months, madame."

"For ten months, and then he departed,
as I knew he would, and crept back to his
own land. And now," she said, lowering her
voice in a whisper, "he is close by us here—
in the town of Dezières, not five miles
away—"

Madame paused here for a moment, still
playing feverishly with the smooth knob of
her chair.

"Here is what we would ask of you, if
you would not think it too much.
Fanchonette has been into this town and has
brought back some idle story about its not
being the man; no false smile, she says, nor
yellow moustaches—as if he were fool enough
to keep such tokens. Mon Dieu!" she added
lifting up her thin hands, "it shall turn out
to be he, and no other. He is lying at
this moment in Dezières, awaiting for his
hour."

"In what way, then, dear madame, would
you have me assist you?"

"Fanchonette does not know this man,
and my poor eyes are old and weak and
would not help me to know him. See us
here, then, monsieur, two friendless women,
and give us this help. Go into that town,
see him, speak with him, probe his very
soul, and if he turn pale have them ready to
rush in upon him. How were we to compass
such things?"

I could only promise that I would set forth
for Dezières, not that Saturday night—it
being far too late—but towards noon the
next day, when she might depend on my best
exertions. I was touched by the poor lady's
sorrows and her pale, handsome countenance,
so worn and sharpened with sorrows. It was
lard to resist the piteous, earnest look, with
which she had waited for my answer.

"A troubled time you must have had of
it, my poor girl," I said to Fanchonette, as we
went down to the door.

"Ah, yes, monsieur;" she said, "but
we would have travelled to the world's
end to find him. I have no fears. The
Bon Dieu will deliver him up to justice
yet."

The next day was Sunday, and a very
bright festival morning it seemed to be.
Looking betimes from my little casement, I
saw the whole town astir, and, in the street
making towards the church where was to be,
presently, the grand mass. They came in
all manner of costumes: abundance of high
white caps, and bright shawls and petticoats
variegating the tide. There were some,
too, from the country outside, drawn along
by stout horses, adorned with gay harness and
fringes. There were stout patriarchs trudging
along, boldly leaning on their good sticks,
and young girls—the Maries and Victorines
of last night—with gold pins in their hair and
great bouquets, and gallants in blouses walking
beside them. So they went by; all bound
for the grand mass. I would go to the grand
mass also.

High altar abundantly decked with
artificial white roses; little altars in little
by-chapels decked also with artificial white
roses. White roses round the capitals of
the tall, grey pillars. White roses along the
organ-gallery, and around the angels, and on
the head of the pretty statue of our lady, or it
might be of our saint and patroness, in the
middle of the aisle. This was the first
impression upon the senses of the curious
stranger. The secret of this waste of white
roses was this; it was the patroness's festival-day,
and, on looking closer, I found that
very many of the bouquets had, in fact,
found their way to the feet of her effigy.
There was to be a grand fonction, in short,
and it was confidently expected that M. le
grand vicaire-general of the district, would
come espressly and celebrate the patroness
in a panegyric; but a little doubt hung
over this prospect. There was altogether a
bright, innocent aspect about the church
interior as I stood looking down at it from
the porch, so well peopled with its ranks of
gaily-dressed peasantry, which struck me as
another of those choice pictures for which I
was indebted to this little place. There was
a tall man in a cocked-hat who was
overpowering in his attentions, unprompted by
mercenary motives. When the grand mass
began, a flood of boys in white, a flood of men
in white, together with a train of lay figures,
displaying upon their backs the gorgeous
copes lent by adjoining parishes to do honour
to the patroness, and now M. le curé himself,
celebrant in a dazzling robe, never seen