—real state of the case. In truth, she had not
fairly recovered from the state of bewilderment
into which the sudden metamorphosis of the
little grubby good-for-nothing she had adopted,
had thrown her. So, when Valérie went away,
La Beugleuse looked upon her withdrawal very
much in the light of a relief from an embarrassing
position.

But why this concealment on the part of Jean
Baptiste? Why should the upright J. B. Constant
think Lyons preferable to Avignon? Why
should he have given an untruthful account of
the girl's change of life? The always intelligent
reader will have little difficulty in answering
these questions.

Yes, the bushy-headed down-looking
innkeeper was savagely in love with Valérie. I say
savagely, because there was something morose
and ferocious in the passion that devoured him.
He could not bear the girl to be out of his sight.
He chafed at the necessity of parting with her,
even for a time, and for her benefit. He went
into silent rages at her caprice, her arrogance,
her cool assumption of superiority over him—
all ignorant as she was, and next door to a castaway.
He loathed and longed to rend in pieces
all whom she talked or laughed with. He was
madly jealous of her, mere child as she was.

He had no bad designs towards Valérie. At
this time he was an honest man, and there was
not much harm about J. B. Constant. He had
never loved till now. His only hope was, that
the girl would be grateful to him. His wish
was, that she should grow up a beautiful and
accomplished woman, and become his wife.

"I will leave this wretched little hole of a
village," he said to himself in his day-dreams;
"I have made some money, and can borrow
more. I will take a grand hotel in Paris— in the
English quarter in the Faubourg St. Honoré.
Valérie will be my wife. She will sit in the
bureau, in a black satin robe, and with a gold
chain round her neck, and keep the accounts.
The waiters will bow and call her Madame la
Patronne. She will go to mass at St.Roch or
the Madeleine. On Sundays, we will dine here
and there, go to St. Cloud, and to the Opera, and
the theatres. Jean Baptiste, my boy, you shall
be envied; you shall be happy." So he thought,
and so he dreamed. Poor fellow!

"If she should be ungrateful!" a voice sometimes
whispered to him. The fear of her ingratitude
was a black phantom not to be conjured
away. "She cannot, she will not," he would
mutter. "If she refuses to love me, I will kill
her."

When Valérie had been six months at school,
J. B. Constant undertook a journey to Lyons to
see her. He found her more beautiful than
before. The schoolmistress said that her progress
was wonderful; that she had already
distanced many girls who had been in the
establishment— and with the advantages of previous
education— three and four years; and that, if she
were allowed to remain with her, two years
instead of one, she would answer for her leaving,
fitted to move in the very highest circles. She
did not know that J. B. Constant was a mere
village innkeeper. He had seen the world, and
served noblemen, and at Lyons he put on his
best clothes and his best manners.

There was one drop of bitterness in the hurried
account the governess gave of her pupil.
Mademoiselle, she said, was a young person
difficult to manage. She would not endure reproof.
She would not hear reason. Her temper
was terrible. "We will make the pension
twelve hundred francs a year instead of a
thousand, and you must make allowances for
Mademoiselle's temper," said Constant. "Poor
child, she never knew her mother, and in early
years was unkindly treated!" The schoolmistress
was a sagacious as well as a sympathising instructress,
and for the extra stipend agreed to say
nothing more about Valérie's indisposition to
hear reason.

When J. B. Constant had an interview with
his protégée, the governess being present, she
received him with a stately curtsey, and eyes
demurely cast down; but when Madame du
Verger discreetly left them together, she
accosted the innkeeper with a haughty familiarity
that was half redolent of the old rough manners
of the stable-girl, and half satirical.

"Ah, ça, mon homme!" she cried. " What do
you think of me now? Am I grown? Are my
hands coarse? Is my voice harsh?"

As he was going away, full of love and hope,
though slightly discomfited by this reception:

"And La Beugleuse, the old hag who used to
flog me— is she dead?"

"Your aunt is alive, Valerie," Constant said,
with a reproachful look.

"I am sorry for it. Such old witches ought
to die. I hate her, and will pay her out for all
the blows she has given me. Besides, when I
go into the world she will disgrace me. To have
an aunt who has worked in the fields! To have
an aunt who was a mere beast of burden! Quoi!
Mon homme, you must take care that she never
leaves Marouille." And so, with the stately curtsey,
in strange disunion with her hard and bitter
talk, the girl left him.

She never wrote to her aunt. The old woman
was by no means despondent under this neglect.
She merely muttered that Valérie would be a
good-for-nothing, even if she were married to M.
le Préfet, and then went on working harder than
ever. To Jean Baptiste the exemplary pensionnaire
at Madame du Verger's wrote with tolerable
regularity once a month. Her letters always
began "Mon bon ami," as if this young pauper had
been an empress, and Constant president of a
republic.Madame du Verger had suggested "Mon
cher bienfaiteur," but Valérie had refused
pointblank to adopt the formula. She wrote in a
bold flowing hand, her letters contained a dry
summary of her educational progress— of the
books she had read, and the accomplishments
she had mastered— and ended, "Valérie Sablon"