The good curé has often told me that it is wicked to swear, and truly he keeps his own rule very well for this age, when each man embellishes his language with strange and curious expressions; but never to the sober curé in all his sixty years of placid life came so sweet, so charming, so irresistible an adventure as my bad habit brought me that eventful night.

In the first place, I had been foolish enough to go walking in a strange country by moonlight; my friend and host, the Compte de Lausanne, had warned me not to go too far from the château; but being of a curiously obstinate disposition, I had turned my back to its lighted windows and walked steadily for about an hour. Now, I had counted on the moonlight to find my way home, and was, therefore, much disconcerted when the black clouds robbed me of its assistance, and, to add to my discomfort, it began to rain.

I was completely lost, and I could not perceive that a two hours' walk brought me any nearer my goal. I was wet through; at each step the water in my boots made a peculiar swash; my hair––of which, I confess, I am rather vain, for it naturally curls into the love locks every gentleman craves––my hair was soaked with muddy water; I never remember being more uncomfortable.

I had just leaned against a tree to rest and recover my breath, when a sudden rustle in the bushes behind me made me spring erect again, and at that I felt something soft and warm fly past me, so near that it touched my face. I made a quick step forward into the darkness, and, to my astonishment and discomfort, struck a stone wall with such violence that I was giddy for a moment––only a moment, however; the next impulse that came tome was irresistible; I straightened up ands wore––swore with a vigour, a fluency and variety that I have never since equaled; and, indeed, I do not know when I should have stopped, but when my eloquence was at its height, there came from above my head a peal of feminine laughter, soft and subdued, but so uncanny at that time and place that for an instant I thought I had evoked a demon.

"Who is there?" I demanded, with some anxiety. "What are you doing in this place?"

"That is a question I might ask, monsieur," said the most charming voice imaginable.

"Why do you thus attack my wall?"

"Your wall!" I cried. "You live here, then; this is inhabited by men; this is a house?"

"Yes and no, monsieur. I live here, but it is not inhabited by men. This is the convent of St. Gwendolen."

A wave of disappointment swept over me. "A nun!" I said, incredulously; "a nun, and laugh like that?"

"I have not said so," she replied, and I heard a rustle as though she moved in a silken dress, and a faint, delicious perfume floated down to me, bringing suggestions of a court rather than a convent.

"Do not go, madame!" I cried.

"I fear I detain you in the storm," she answered.

"No, no," I declared, earnestly; "I am most comfortable; never have I so enjoyed myself. Remain, I implore you."

"Monsieur has strange taste; I fancied I heard you object to the weather."

I blushed in the darkness.

"I had not seen you then," I said.

"You have not seen me now," she retorted.

"I have heard you, and I still hope."

"Monsieur deceives himself; there is no hope. I had better go in."

"No," I called, hastily, as I heard her move again; "I will not come up; stay and talk to me."

"Then you intended to enter," she exclaimed, triumphantly. " I knew it, monsieur."

"On the honour of a gentleman, madame, I wish to do nothing that would displease you."

"Who are you?" she asked, abruptly.

"Will you exchange names with me, madame?"

"Yes," she said, slowly.

"I am Edouard de Guier," I replied.

"The Chevalier de Guier?" she asked.

"Yes; and you?"

"My name is Dolores, monsieur."

"Madame, you are deceitful," I cried, indignantly. "I told you all my name."

"You do not appreciate your privilege," she returned, quite unabashed. "I do not permit many men to call me by my first name."

I gasped for a moment. I had not thought of it that way; moreover, I had a new idea, noticing her name and that she spoke with a slight lisp, a delightful languor, quite foreign to our vivacious French ladies.

"You are a Spaniard, madame?" I asked.

She started; I heard her breathing.

"I am going," she said; "adieu, monsieur."

"I have offended you," I cried, remorsefully. "Pardon me; I did not know that you would object to my question. Consider what my curiosity must be, meeting so charming a companion in the centre of the forest; believe me, my impertinence arises solely from my ardent desire to see you, or hear you, again. Pardon me, and remain."

I heard her musical laugh.

"Monsieur is gallant, but I must go in. Think of the dismay of the sisters if they found me talking to a man."

"Give me at least a souvenir," I said despairingly; "tell me where I can see you again."

She paused, then asked, "Where are you going; do you live near here? You cannot, or you would surely know––I would ask if you live in the city."

"Certainly, madame, in Paris."

"In Paris!" she cried in evident pleasure; "then I will give you a souvenir, on one condition; you must give it back when I ask for it."

"Willingly, if you come after it yourself."

"I will, monsieur," she said, and the next moment a small dark object was dropped into my hands.

"Madame!" I called; "Dolores." A ripple of laughter answered me and a distant voice replied, "Adieu, Edouard." Could anything have been more delightful? From the hour I have admired my name.

However, when she was gone it occurred to me that I was wet and cold, and sorely tired. I turned my steps toward my friend's château.

This time better luck attended me, and about three o’clock in the morning I reached home to find de Lausanne just starting out to search for me.

Naturally, I was annoyed. I had reached years of discretion, and I told him so with some asperity, saying I had walked over to the convent.

"The convent! Why, that is five miles!" he said in surprise; and I noticed the men standing by looked at me curiously.

I withdrew to my room in a temper. If he had not been my host I would have quarreled with him. It suits me not to be stared at as though I were a wild beast.

I rose early next morning, and, bidding Pierre saddle my horse, I used the time I was waiting in examining Dolores’ gift. Truly it was remarkable that she should give it to me, and more strange yet that she should wish me to return it, for her souvenir was a slipper––a tiny thing of blue satin with a jewelled buckle and little roses painted on it; so small it was that I marveled any woman could wear it.

The sight of the dainty thing filled me with an impatient longing to see its mistress, and mounting my horse I started on a gallop for the convent. But to my disappointment and chagrin, I could not find it; indeed there was no building in the forest except a ruined tower that was utterly unfit for human habitation.

In deep disgust I rode home, and at breakfast I asked de Lausanne where the convent was, mentioning carelessly that I had seen it the night before, but could not find it in my morning ride.

He looked surprised, saying any peasant could have directed me. "Although," he laughed, "they would not have led you there last night."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because they believe it is haunted. Did you not see how the servants looked at you when you said you had been to the ruin?"

"The ruin!" I cried. "I was at the convent."

"Exactly; the ruined convent," he replied. "There is no other."

I stared at him in hopeless bewilderment.

"No other," I repeated blankly. Then, seeing his curiosity, I told him my story, and as proof showed him the slipper.

We went together to examine the old building, and my host pointed out the insecure balcony on which Dolores must have stood while she talked to me. One thing we found that proved to us my lady was not a ghost; the ground within the tower was trampled and the grass destroyed as though horses had been kept there.

Perhaps Dolores had been waiting for one lover while she amused herself with another. The thought set me wild with jealousy, for I loved her. I confess that had she wished, I would willingly have married her in the dark, knowing no more of her than that she had the sweetest voice it was ever my privilege to hear.

I still had a hope of meeting her, for she had promised to ask for the slipper herself, and firmly was I resolved to yield it to no one else.

Surely this time I would see more of her, would learn her name and station, for I was determined that she should be my wife.

De Lausanne was most interested in my adventure. He, however, had not my confidence in Dolores, and his suspicions and suggestions were very annoying. One of them was, I remember, that it was some Spanish plot, of indefinite purpose, and that I should notify the Regent; another, that she was a waiting-maid who had robbed her mistress, and against whom the slipper was incriminating evidence. At that I lost all patience, and declaring was weary of the country, I left that night for Paris. I had not forgotten Dolores' interest in that city, and thought she might have been going there. The slipper I carried in my pocket, not wishing it to be roughly handled, and knowing all things entering Paris were inspected, for the rival claims of Louis' sons kept everything in a ferment.

My precaution was well taken; my baggage was ruthlessly searched. The officer in charge said it was because I had been so close to the frontier and they feared trouble with Spain.

There were constant bickerings, plots and counterplots between Philip of Orleans and Philip of Spain, added to by discontent and ambition of the Duc de Maine. Truly it seemed a vain struggle for a regency that I believed would be brief, for the baby king was very delicate.

These things, however, worried me but little. I never meddled much in politics, being a soldier and disgusted with the trickery of both sides.

I rode gaily into Paris that sunny afternoon congratulating myself that the cares of princes were not mine and never dreaming in what a tangle I was involving my fortunes.

For the first few days I spent my time in walking the streets and looking for Dolores; the second week I would hardly leave my rooms, expecting a message from her every minute. My friends thought me out of my mind and frankly told me so; but I did not learn what my enemies thought until a little later.

One day, about three weeks after I returned to the city, my cousin Germaine came to see me; he had not been with me two hours before he informed me the house was watched, pointing out an unwashed vagabond on the other side of the street as a member of the police force.

Naturally, I laughed at him. Why should the Regent be interested in my movements? In reply he invited me for a walk. He was right; the man followed us. My first impulse was to ask him how he dared annoy two gentlemen thus; but this Germaine would not permit, advising me to leave Paris at once. I refused, of course, even if it were not for Dolores. It is not my custom to run from danger. I was surprised at his giving such advice, and told him so, which he retorted by suggesting that the police did well to watch me. In the end, Germaine went home in a temper and I sulked the rest of the day, struggling with a desire to go out and drive the spy from his position before my house.

Toward evening it became unbearable, and as soon as it was dark I slipped out the back door and away with a delightful sense of freedom. I walked rapidly and in a short time I was at least a couple of miles from home.

It was a poor part of the city, and I was considerably surprised to see a handsome Sedan chair cross one of the streets ahead of me. As I came up to the cross street I saw the porters had set it down, and a woman, wrapped in a long cloak, stepped out, hesitated a moment, then walked swiftly down the street.

I have said it was a bad neighbourhood, and I was amazed to see a woman enter it alone. It was no place for her and I decided to follow her at a little distance.

She did not go far. About a block from where she left the chair she met a man who, after exchanging a few words with her, handed her a letter and turned to leave her.

Just then a party of men came out of a house nearby, shouting, singing, and evidently intoxicated. The lady cast a glance in their direction and called faintly to her companion, but he hurried on, disregarding her appeal. By this time I had caught up with her and drew her into a doorway until the crowd passed by.

"Fear nothing, madame," I said as gently as I could, as she looked at me in terror. "Let me take you to your chair."

She gave a little exclamation, then said with a nervous laugh:

"I am not afraid, Monsieur de Guier."

Surely I knew that voice and that charming ripple of laughter.

"Dolores!" I cried.

"Monsieur remembers, then," she murmured. "You will give me my souvenir again?"

My feelings overpowered my courtesy.

"Madame," I said eagerly, "do not go away again leaving me no way of finding you. I love you; do not laugh at me; I know I have never seen your face, that I am ignorant even of your name, but I love you, and that is enough! Will you be my wife?"

She was silent for a moment, the answered quietly:

"Yes; now take me to my chair."

"Dolores," I cried, in incredulous delight, but she waved me away with a small white hand and repeated, "Take me back." I took her back in dazed bewilderment, nor did she speak again until she was safely placed in the Sedan chair. Then she leaned out of the door saying, "Give me the slipper, monsieur"; "I will return it," she added, seeing my reluctance.

I took it from my pocket and gave it to her.

"I will see you again soon?" I asked. She nodded and said "Yes. Please do not follow me." I stepped back. The porters took up the chair and carried it away.

I watched it out of sight, then started home. As I turned around to go, to my intense disgust, I saw the spy was concealed in a small alley that ran between two neighbouring buildings. His eyes were fixed on the corner round which Dolores had disappeared, with an expression of evil triumph and exultation. Evidently he had followed me, in spite of all my precautions. A wave of anger swept over me. Was I to have him always at my heels? A way occurred to me to rid myself of him for a while, at least, and without waiting to think of the consequences, I crept up behind, and grasping his shoulders, I flung him backward so he struck his head with sufficient force to stun him. I used my sash to tie him hand and foot and made him a gag out of my handkerchief; then I dragged him into the alley, concealed him behind some ash-barrels, and went home much exhilarated by the little adventure.

I had no doubt of what Germaine would think of my actions, and perhaps I was a thought too rash; but no man likes to be followed and spied upon, and I was ever a trifle impetuous. Moreover, Dolores' promise had gone to my head like new wine.

I retired to my room and spent half the rest of the night in laying plans for the future. Toward morning I fell asleep, only to be awakened about six o'clock by a furious knocking at the door. "Who is there?" I called with some asperity. "Will Monsieur le Chevalier open the door?"asked a suave voice.

"I do not wish to receive visitors. What do you want?" I demanded.

"I have a message from the Duc d'Orleans for monsieur."

"Wait, then," I answered, and as I dressed I wondered what the Regent could have to say to me. When I opened the door, I found four gendarmes and an officer camped in my hall. They immediately surrounded me, and, to my amazement and indignation, marched me to a closed carriage, which drove off at full speed as though I were a dangerous criminal liable to escape. Not one of my excited questions would they answer, but gravely escorted me to the Bastile, and, informing me the Duke would see me that evening, they left me to my meditations, not very pleasant ones when I considered that men had grown old waiting a trial.

I had no doubt that I was arrested for my ill-treatment of the spy, and most earnestly I wished I had followed Germaine's prudent advice. Suppose Dolores sent for me, would she be offended at my absence, not knowing where I was? Suppose they left me in prison for a month, a week even, where would she be by that time?

That was not to be my fate, however; that evening, after dark, I was again escorted to the carriage and driven to the palace. There my guard left me, and a gentleman I did not know requested me to follow him to the Duke. I obeyed in silence, and he led me through the brilliantly lighted salons, filled with gorgeously dressed people, where a ball was in progress. Surely it was a strange place to take a prisoner, I thought. I was keenly alive to the fact that I wore the suit I had put on in the morning, and that it was badly rumpled. The different little groups of laughing people became silent as we passed, looking at us curiously.

Never had I seen such long rooms, and we crossed three of them, elbowing our way through that dainty crowd, until at last my guide said:

"We are there, Chevalier."

Before me was a small, clear place, and on a large rug that gave the appearance of a dais without actually being so pretentious, were two armchairs, one empty, that I inferred belonged to the Duchess, the other occupied by the Regent.

He was talking to a lady who was standing near, and whose beauty was so striking that even my unpleasant situation could not prevent my admiration.

I hesitated for a moment; my guide had left me; no one had noticed me as I joined the little circle; and, indeed, so out of place seemed a serious investigation in that brilliant ballroom, that I had almost decided my arrival was due to some blundering official, when the Duke looked up and saw me.

"Ah, Monsieur de Guier," he said, "it is a long time since you have honoured us with your presence at one of our little gatherings. We are glad to see you."

"I supposed you would be, your highness, since you sent for me," I replied, drily. He opened his eyes in affected astonishment.

"I sent for you! You are surely mistaken, Chevalier; nevertheless, I have wished to see you; I have to restore some of your property that has fallen into my hands." And as he spoke he took from a table near him a small object and gave it to me. An uncontrollable exclamation rose to my lips as I received it. It was Dolores' slipper.

"Give us your explanation, monsieur,"

The Duke leaned forward in eager interest.

"It is yours, then?" he cried; "you did bring it into Paris?"

"Certainly, monsieur," I answered, calmly putting it in my pocket. There was a movement of surprise among those around me. I noticed someone had dropped the curtains that separated the room we were in from the gay dancers in the salon. There were half a dozen of us together, all looking at me incurious expectancy; evidently they knew more about the affair than I did and thought they knew less, for the Duke said, sternly:

"Give us your explanation, monsieur, and first of all, who told you to bring that slipper here?"

"I have nothing to explain, your highness," I replied, more truthfully than he guessed. "No one told me to bring the slipper to Paris; I usually carry my souvenirs with me."

"Monsieur, this is dangerous trifling," warned my haughty questioner. "Who gave it to you?"

I paused in embarrassment, and before I could answer, the beautiful woman I had noticed on my entrance broke into a little peal of laughter.

"Monsieur le Chevalier is too gallant; doubtless it is a lady's gift."

"Madame, please do not interrupt us," said the Regent, angrily. "Monsieur, will you answer me?" But I was far too completely bewildered to speak. For the third time I recognised Dolores' voice; vaguely I heard the question repeated.

"Will you tell me who gave you the slipper?"

With an effort, I gathered together my scattered senses.

"No, your highness," I said, firmly.

A gasp came from the surrounding courtiers, and the Duke fell back in his chair. Dolores laughed again. The sound seemed to electrify the Duke.

"Madame," he cried, "you are about to return to Spain, I believe; I advise you to start at once. Monsieur le Guier, I will say farewell to you also, as you are about to leave France for many years. The air of Paris does not agree with you."

I bowed with a sense of relief. Exile was better than the Bastile, but as I turned to depart, Dolores signed to me to wait.

"Your highness will not object to our going together?" she said, gaily.

"Together!" he exclaimed.

She blushed adorably. "I have the honour to be Monsieur de Guier's fiancée."

For a moment he could not speak. The evident happiness of the two people he had just banished from his court was almost too much to endure; he had thought he was making us wretched.

Suddenly he sprang to his feet. One petty annoyance he could inflict.

"Open the curtains," he called to one of the gentlemen present––"open the curtains and announce the engagement of Dona la Marchesa de Hernando y Perez to the Chevalier de Guier. The marriage will take place in the chapel; we go there at once."

So in my rumpled riding suit I led the Spanish beauty and heiress through the staring, curious court, and we were wedded by the Duke's own priest. Never did he marry a happier couple, nor one whose happiness was more lasting.

"Dolores," I said, a few hours later, as our carriage rolled out of Paris–– "Dolores, what was wrong with that slipper?"

She looked at me with charming confusion. "Do not be angry," she murmured. "I would not have given it to you if I had dreamed the Duke would find it. I knew they would search my belongings, for they suspected me, while you would be safe. That night I met you in the old convent my party was delayed by the storm. When you said you were going to Paris, the temptation to give you the slipper was irresistible. Forgive me, dear; I will meddle no more with politics."

"Do you think I would quarrel with anything that brought us together?" I asked. "You felt by instinct that I was ready to help you, Dolores, but what was in the slipper?"

"That," she answered, "is the only thing I cannot tell you; it involves too many others. Let us forget it, we will meddle with no more intrigues."

But I have not forgotten it; it is my most cherished possession except my wife.