It was the grave of Monsieur de Mesnil to which she pointed; and certainly the memories connected with that spot did not render the feelings of my heart less sad. I replied, however, "Well, let us meet here: we are less likely to be disturbed here, perhaps, than elsewhere."

"That was one of the reasons why I used to love the place," replied Laura: "I never found any one here yet but Father Ferdinand, whom I one day saw kneeling at his beads beneath this tree; but it is almost always lonely, and I used to come here with a book, and sometimes read a little; but more often think of you and my father, and pray God to shield you both from all the dangers of the war. Let us part, however, now; for it is growing late, and I must wash my eyes before any one sees me."

I pressed her to my heart, and I pressed my lips to hers--I acted very wrong in so doing, I know; but, as I have said, this book is a confession, and therefore I tell all--I pressed her to my heart, and I pressed my lips to hers, and then we parted, to meet again the next morning at the same spot.

My next private interview was one with Father Ferdinand. I saw, during breakfast, that he was anxious to speak with me; but the feeling of consciousness to which I have before referred, made me as desirous of avoiding any particular conversation with him now as I had formerly been willing and pleased to enjoy his society alone. As soon as the meal was over, then, I turned, as if to seek my own apartments, but in reality intending to take my hat and once more go out into the park. So well acquainted, however, was Father Ferdinand with the turns of the human heart, and the actions that all those various turns are likely to produce, that he met me at the gate at the very moment I was setting out; and, laying his hand upon my arm, he said, "I am about to take my walk with you, my son."

I had now no excuse for avoiding his society, and we walked on together, proceeding for the first few minutes in silence. He then began the conversation by telling me that he felt deeply and personally all the care and kindness that I had bestowed upon Clement de la Marke. "I have spoken with the little fellow long this morning," he said, "and from all that he has told me, I must say that, had you been his own father, or his brother, you could not have shown him more judicious kindness."

I knew the good priest too well, and the exact proportion of kindly subtlety which tempered a disposition that was naturally candid, to believe that his sole object in thus forcing me, as it were, into a private interview with him, was to commend my behaviour to the little page. Nevertheless, though I understood all this very well, yet he went on so long and so skilfully, speaking upon that subject, and the events of the campaign alone, that I was thrown off my guard, and found myself detailing many of the occurrences that had taken place, more at large than I had intended, or perhaps desired. Observing me pause, as I found this to be the case, he replied, quietly, "It seems to me, my son, that in this last campaign you have exposed yourself a great deal more than was at all necessary; and, indeed, Clement has told me that you did so to such a degree, that it became a common observation, amongst both officers and soldiers, that you were seeking death. Tell me, my son," he added, in a more emphatic tone--"tell me, if you love me, what is the cause of that deep despondency, which you cannot conceal from one who, like myself, has watched you, with the affection of a father, for many years."

I felt that to deny the despondency was vain, and I did not choose to prevaricate concerning its cause. I replied, therefore, at once, "You must not ask me, my good father. At some time--and that ere long--I will tell you the whole. But rest satisfied at present with knowing that though, perhaps, as it seems was too apparent, I did seek Death wherever he was to be found, yet I have now learned to think better; and, whatever I may suffer, will make such frantic attempts no more."

"I trust that it will be so," replied Father Ferdinand--"I trust that it will be so. As you tell me not the cause of your suffering--and I will not pretend to know it--I can of course offer you no spiritual consolation; nevertheless, I can perhaps yield you some of a worldly kind. Therefore, let me beg you to remember, before you make yourself miserable about anything that this earth contains, that those things which seem the most hopeless are often, by a slight change of circumstances, brought within our reach. Let my own history be a warning to you. Born to a high rank, and to a princely fortune, from an early disappointment I abjured station, wealth, and the world, concealed myself in the cells of a foreign monastery, and when, at the end of twenty years, I came forth again in the humble state in which you now see me, I discovered that had I but paused three months ere I rendered my fate irrevocable, every obstacle which lay in my way would have been removed, and that all I sought might have been mine. Let it be a lesson to you, young man, and learn never to despair. Now, farewell; and when you are inclined to make me your confidant, you will always find that you have a sincere friend."

Thus saying, he turned away, and left me to pursue my walk alone. What he told me was, indeed, intended to produce a good effect; but, nevertheless, the consequences might have been very evil. He raised up again hopes that were better crushed. He conjured up dreams that were only calculated to mislead; and for the first half hour, believing that he had seen the real cause of all I suffered, and thought it right, from some other knowledge that I did not possess, to encourage my hopes, I gave myself up to visions of joy. Then, however, came the remembrance that Monsieur de Villardin had promised the hand of his daughter to the Count de Laval; and recollecting that he had not informed Laura herself of the fact, I saw clearly that he had not informed Father Ferdinand either. The good Priest, then, I concluded, had seen our love; and not knowing the engagement which bound the Duke to another, had believed that he might be moved by our mutual affection. Thus fled, once more, all my brilliant dreams; for I was too thoroughly acquainted with Monsieur de Villardin's stern adherence to his word, to believe that any circumstance would make him even think of withdrawing it.

That day passed without any farther incident of note. The next morning I again met Laura de Villardin; and each day, during the whole week that followed, we failed not to spend at least two or three hours together--I may call it alone; for Lise, who accompanied her, generally left us till it was time to part. It must not be thought, however, that these clandestine meetings were devoted to thoughts or feelings that all the world might not have witnessed. They were foolish, I grant, and only served to nourish the passion that we believed we were taking means and laying schemes to overcome. The proposal that Lise had made of a private marriage was never again mentioned between us. We never encouraged each other with false hopes, but admitted to our own hearts, in the fullest degree, that no chance existed of our union. The delight of being together we certainly did possess; and it was doubtless the secret desire of retaining at least that blessing which blinded our eyes to the imprudence of our continual meetings.