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at one time, it was too cold, at another too warm, too windy, too moist, or what else you pleased; when in truth it was too nothing, but your insuperable love of ease?"

FRANKLIN: "That I confess may have happened occasionally, probably ten times in a year.”

GOUT: "Your confession is very far short of the truth, the gross amount is one hundred and ninety-nine times."

FRANKLIN: "Is it possible?"

GOUT: "So possible that it is a fact; you may rely on the accuracy of my statement. You know Monsieur Brillon's gardens, and what fine walks they contain; you know the handsome flight of an hundred steps, which leads from the terrace above to the lawn below. You have been in the practice of visiting this amiable family twice a week after dinner, and it is a maxim of your own, that a man may take as much exercise in walking a mile up and down stairs, as in ten on level ground, what an opportunity was here for you to have had exercise in both those ways! Did you embrace it, and how often? FRANKLIN: "I cannot immediately answer that ques

tion."

GOUT: "I will do it for you; not once."

FRANKLIN: "Not once?"

GOUT: "Even so. During the summer you went at six o'clock. You found the charming lady, with her lovely children and friends, eager to walk with you, and entertain you with their agreeable conversation; and what has been your choice? Why, to sit on the terrace, satisfying yourself with the fine prospect, and passing your eye over the beauties of the garden below, without taking one step to descend and walk about in them. On the contrary, you call for tea and chess-board; and

lo! you are occupied in your seat till nine o'clock, and that besides two hours play after dinner, and then, instead of walking home, which would have bestirred you a little, you instead, step into a carriage. How absurd to suppose that all this carelessness can be reconcilable with health, without my interposition.'

FRANKLIN: "I am convinced now of the justice of Poor Richard's remark, that 'Our debts and our sins are always greater than we think for.'"

The sun was quite low in the west when Franklin threw down his quill: "I am feeling much better," he soliloquized. "The first chance I get I will visit Madame Brillon and I will walk up and down the steps three times. Perhaps that will appease my godmother's wrath."

Antoine announced a visitor. Before admitting him, however, he lighted two candles which stood upon the doctor's table. Franklin had no difficulty in recognizing the man who entered. It was Frances's uncle, Boone Fentress:

"I have come to ask you where my niece, Miss Frances Fentress is?"

"She is not in Paris," was the reply.

"Do you know where she is?"

"Not exactly."

"Do you know where she is going?" "I do."

"Where?"

"I shall not tell you."

Boone Fentress looked at the comparatively helpless man before him. Then he reflected that a show of violence would not help matters.

"I am her uncle," he said, "and her legal guardian. She was committed to my charge by her parents. You

took her from me and, by doing so, declared yourself to be my enemy."

"Let it stand that way," said Franklin. "You are my enemy and I am yours."

He picked up the quill and resumed his writing.

Boone Fentress uttered an oath, and with clenched hands and set teeth, left the room without another word.

W

CHAPTER XXIV

ENEMIES OF THE KING.

HEN the Marquise de Ferdieu arrived in Geneva, she had little difficulty in finding the residence of Madame de Vaillarde; in fact, during her short stay in the city she learned that M. Gustave Vaillarde was a very well-known man, although regarded with some suspicion by the authorities. He was tall and commanding in person, with a handsome face, fine figure, and musical voice. He did not seem to be engaged in any lucrative business, but was always well supplied with money. His home was richly furnished, and Mme. Vaillarde and the children expensively and tastefully dressed. Upon her first visit to her old friend, the marquise did not take Frances with her. "I will survey the ground," she said, "and find out what sort of a man this husband of my friend is before I take you to her home; besides, I wish to learn her feelings with regard to your Uncle Boone. If she sides with us, all may be well; but if she is likely to be influenced by him, in case he should make his way thither, Geneva may be the last place in the world where you should stay."

When she returned from her first visit, her report was encouraging. "I think you will be very happy with your aunt," she said. "I led her into a conversation about your Uncle Boone, but she said that they had never thought a great deal of each other when they were chil

dren together, and she had heard nothing from him since her marriage to Monsieur de Bressant and her departure for Paris. I will try to tell you what she said in her own words: 'If my Brother Boone came to Europe simply to place Frances in my care, he would have no reason to remain. As far as I am concerned, it would be better for him to go right back to America. I should tell him so if he expressed any intention of remaining here.'

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The next day Frances accompanied the marquise, and was warmly welcomed by her aunt.

"I am so glad to see you. Come here," cried Mme. Vaillarde. "I have not laid eyes upon you since you were a baby in your mother's arms. You were named after me, and that is a good reason why I should love you. You were a pretty baby, and now, my dear, you are really beautiful," and she surveyed the young girl from head to foot. "What lovely hair you have. Come here, where the sunshine can fall upon it. Ah, just as I thoughtlike a mass of gold. When my Gustave sees you, he will rave over you. He admires beautiful women. I asked him once why he married me, for I certainly am not beautiful; but he said that it was one thing to admire and another to love; so you see I am satisfied."

The marquise was prevailed upon to pass a few days with her old friend. When the day for parting came, she said: "I shall go first to Paris and tell our good doctor that you are in safe keeping."

"Will you remain there?" asked Frances.

"Only for a few days. I have grown tired of what Monsieur Vaillarde calls the pomp of royalty. Like him, I am losing my faith in kings; perhaps not so much in the kings themselves as in the people by whom they are surrounded. If I stay in Paris, I belong to the nobility; I must mingle with servitors and sycophants who surround

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