It was a wonder to hear Hortense jest—a sign that her spirits were at high-water mark indeed.
"We are to understand, then, that Robert is the favourite?" observed Louis.
"Mon cher," replied Hortense, "Robert—c'est tout ce qu'il y a de plus précieux au monde; à côté de lui le reste du genre humain n'est que du rebut.—N'ai-je pas raison, mon enfant?" she added, appealing to Caroline.
Caroline was obliged to reply, "Yes," and her beacon was quenched. Her star withdrew as she spoke.
"Et toi, Robert?" inquired Louis.
"When you shall have an opportunity, ask herself," was the quiet answer. Whether he reddened or paled Caroline did not examine. She discovered that it was late, and she must go home. Home she would go; not even Robert could detain her now.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
The future sometimes seems to sob a low warning of the events it is bringing us, like some gathering though yet remote storm, which, in tones of the wind, in flushings of the firmament, in clouds strangely torn, announces a blast strong to strew the sea with wrecks; or commissioned to bring in fog the yellow taint of pestilence covering white Western isles with the poisoned exhalations of the East, dimming the lattices of English homes with the breath of Indian plague. At other times this future bursts suddenly, as if a rock had rent, and in it a grave had opened, whence issues the body of one that slept. Ere you are aware you stand face to face with a shrouded and unthought-of calamity—a new Lazarus.