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Bijou

by Gyp · English · Gutenberg #36199 · 370,714 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Bijou

Author: Gyp

Translator: Alys Hallard


        
Release date: May 23, 2011 [eBook #36199]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36199

Credits: Produced by Fritz Ohrenschall, JoAnn Greenwood and the
        Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BIJOU ***




Produced by Fritz Ohrenschall, JoAnn Greenwood and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









            BIJOU

              BY
             GYP


         _TRANSLATED_
              BY
         ALYS HALLARD.


            LONDON
        HUTCHINSON & CO.
    34 PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
             1897




BIJOU.




I.


MADAME DE BRACIEUX was working for her poor people. She poked her
thick, light, tortoise-shell crochet-needle into the ball of coarse
wool, and putting that down on her lap, lifted her head and looked
across at her great-nephew, Jean de Blaye.

"Jean," she said, "what are you gazing at that is so interesting? You
stand there with your nose flattened against the window-pane, just
exactly as you did when you were a little boy, and were so
insufferable."

Jean de Blaye lifted his head abruptly. He had been leaning his
forehead against the glass of the bay-window.

"I?" he answered, hesitating slightly. "Oh, nothing, aunt--nothing at
all!"

"Nothing at all? Oh, well, I must say that you seem to be looking at
nothing at all with a great deal of attention."

"Do not believe him, grandmamma!" said Madame de Rueille in her
beautiful, grave, expressive voice; "he is hoping all the time to see
a cab appear round the bend of the avenue."

"Is he expecting someone?" asked the marchioness.

"Oh, no!" explained M. de Rueille, laughing; "but a cab, even a
Pont-sur-Loire cab, would remind him of Paris. Bertrade is teasing
him."

"I don't care all that much about being reminded of Paris," muttered
Jean, without stirring.

Madame de Rueille gazed at him in astonishment. "One would almost
think he was in earnest!" she remarked.

"In earnest, but absent-minded!" said the marchioness, and then,
turning towards a young abbe, who was playing loto with the de Rueille
children, she asked:

"Monsieur, will you tell us whether there is anything interesting
taking place on the terrace?"

The abbe, who was seated with his back to the bay-window, looked
behind him over his shoulder, and replied promptly:

"I do not see anything in the slightest degree interesting, madame."

"Nothing whatever," affirmed Jean, leaving the window, and taking his
seat on a divan.

One of the de Rueille children, forgetting his loto cards, and leaving
the abbe to call out the numbers over and over again with untiring
patience, suddenly perched himself up on a chair, and, by his
grimaces, appeared to be making signals to someone through the window.

"Marcel dear, at whom are you making those horrible grimaces?" asked
the grandmother, puzzled.

"At Bijou," replied the child; "she is out there gathering flowers."

"Has she been there long?" asked the marchioness.

It was the abbe who answered this time.

"About, ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, madame."

"And you consider that Bijou is not interesting to look at?" exclaimed
the old lady, laughing. "You are difficult to please, monsieur!"

Abbe Courteil, who had not been long in the family, and who was
incredibly shy, blushed from the neck-band of his cassock to the roots
of his fair hair, and stammered out in dismay:

"But, madame, when you asked if anything interesting were taking place
on the terrace, I thought you meant--something--something
extraordinary, and I never thought that the presence of Mademoiselle
Bij--I mean, of Mademoiselle Denyse--as she always gathers her flowers
there at this time every day--I never thought that you would consider
that as--"

The sentence ended in an unintelligible way, whilst the abbe, very
much confused, continued shaking the numbers about in the bag.

"That poor abbe," said Bertrade de Rueille, very quietly, "you do
frighten him, grandmamma."

"Nonsense! nothing of the kind! I do not frighten him; you exaggerate,
my dear."

And then, after a moment's reflection, Madame de Bracieux continued:

"The man must be blind then."

"What man?"

"Why, your abbe! Good heavens, what stupid answers he makes."

"But, grandmamma--"

"No! you will never make me believe that a man could watch Bijou at
work amongst the flowers, and not consider her '_interesting to look
at_!'--no, never!"

"A man, yes; but then the abbe is not exactly a man."

"Ah! what is he then, if you please?"

"Well, a priest is not--"

"Not exactly like other men in certain respects! no, at least I hope
not; but priests have eyes, I suppose, and you will grant that, if
they have not eyes like those of other men, they have eyes such as a
woman has, at any rate. Will you allow your abbe to have eyes like a
woman?"

"Why, yes, grandmamma, I will allow him to have any kind of eyes he
likes."

"That's a good thing. Well, then, any woman looking at Bijou would
perceive that she is charming. Why should an abbe not perceive that
too?"

"You do not like our poor abbe."

"Oh, well, you know my opinion. I consider that priests were made for
the churches and not for our houses. Apart from that, I like your abbe
as well as I do any of them. I like him--negatively; I respect him."

Bertrade laughed, and said in her gentle voice:

"It scarcely seems like it; you are very rough on him always."

"I am rough on him, just as I am rough on all of you."

"Yes, but then we are accustomed to it, whilst he--"

"Oh, very well, I won't be rough on him again. I will take care; but
you have no idea how tiresome it will be to me. I do like to be able
to speak my mind. It was a strange notion of yours, to have an abbe
for your children."

"It was Paul; he particularly wished the children to be educated by a
priest, at any rate, to begin with. He is very religious."

"Well, but so am I--I am very religious, and that is just why I would
never have a priest as tutor. Yes, don't you see, if he should be an
intelligent man, why, just for the sake of one or two, or even several
children--but anyhow only a small number, you make use of his
intelligence, which his calling had destined for the direction of his
flock, and you prevent him from teaching, comforting, and forgiving
the sins of poor creatures, who, as a rule, are much more interesting
than we are. If, on the other hand, the priest should be an imbecile,
why, he just devotes himself conscientiously to distorting the mind of
the little human being entrusted to him, and in both cases you are
responsible, either for the harm you do, or the good you prevent being
done---Ah! here's Bijou, let me look at her; I shall enjoy that more
than talking about your abbe," and the marchioness pointed to her
grand-daughter, who was just entering the room, and who looked like a
walking basket of flowers.

Denyse de Courtaix, nicknamed Bijou, was an exquisite little creature,
refined-looking, graceful, and slender, and yet all over dimples. She
had large violet eyes, limpid, and full of expression, a straight
nose, turning up almost imperceptibly at the end, a very small mouth,
with very red lips going up merrily at the corners, and showing some
small, milky-white teeth. Her soft, silky hair was of that light
auburn shade so rarely seen nowadays. Her tiny ears were shaded with
pink, like mother-of-pearl, and this same pinky shade was to be seen
not only on her cheeks, but on her forehead, her neck, and her hands.
It shone all over her skin with a rosy gleam. Her eyebrows alone,
which crossed her smooth, intelligent forehead with a very fine, and
almost unbroken dark line, indicated the fact that this frail and
pretty little creature had a will of her own.

Bijou, who looked about fifteen or sixteen years of age, had attained
her majority just a week ago, but from her perfect and dainty little
person there seemed to emanate a breath of child-like candour and
innocence. Her charm, however, which was most subtle and penetrating,
was distinctly that of a woman, and it was this contrast which made
Bijou so fascinating and so unlike other girls. Such as she was, she
infatuated men, delighted women, and was adored by all.

As soon as she entered the room, all rosy-looking in her pink dress of
cloudy muslin, with a sort of flat basket filled with roses, fastened
round her neck with pink ribbon, everyone surrounded her, glad to
welcome the gaiety which seemed to enter with her, for until her
arrival the large room had felt somewhat bare and empty.

Paul de Rueille, who was playing billiards with his brother-in-law,
Henry de Bracieux, came to ask for a rose from her basket, whilst
Henry, who had followed him, took one without asking.

The de Rueille children, leaving the abbe, who continued calling out
the loto numbers in a monotonous tone, went sliding across to the
young girl, and hung about her. Their mother called them back.

"Leave Bijou alone, children; you worry her!"

"Robert! Marcel! come here," said the abbe, getting up.

"Oh, no," protested Bijou, "let them alone; I like to have them!"

She took the basket from her neck, and was just about to put it down
on the billiard-table, when she suddenly stopped.

"Oh, no! I must have mercy on the game."

"Isn't she nice? she thinks of everything," murmured Henry de
Bracieux, quite touched.

"Come and kiss me, Bijou," said the marchioness.

Denyse had just put her basket down on a divan. She took from it a
full-blown rose, and went quickly across to her grandmother, whom she
kissed over and over again in a fondling way as a child.

"There," she said, presenting her rose, "it is the most beautiful one
of all!" Her voice was rather high-pitched, rather "a head-voice"
perhaps, but it sounded so young and clear, and then, too, she spoke
so distinctly, and with such an admirable pronunciation.

"You have not seen Pierrot, then?" asked the marchioness.

"Pierrot?" said Bijou, as though she were trying to recall something
to her memory. "Why, yes, I have seen him; he was with me a minute or
two helping me to gather the flowers, and then he went away to his
father, who was shooting rabbits in the wood."

"I might have thought as much; that boy does not do a thing."

"But, grandmamma, he is here for his holidays."

"His holidays if you like; but, all the same, if a tutor has been
engaged for him, it is surely so that he may work."

"But he must take some rest now and again, poor Pierrot--and his tutor
too."

"They do nothing else, though. Well, as long as my brother knows it,
and as long as it suits him--"

"It suits him to-day, anyhow, for he told them to join him in the
wood."

"He told _them_?" repeated the old lady; and then she continued slily,
"and so the tutor has been gathering roses, too?"

"Yes," replied Denyse, with her beautiful, frank smile, and not
noticing her grandmother's mocking intonation, "he has been gathering
roses, too."

"He probably enjoyed that more than shooting rabbits," said the
marchioness, glancing at a tall young man who was just entering the
room, "for if he went to join your uncle in the wood, he did not stay
long with him anyhow!"

"Why--no!"--said Bijou in astonishment, and then leaving her
grandmother, she advanced to meet the young man.

"Did you not find uncle, Monsieur Giraud?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, mademoiselle," he replied, turning very red. "Yes,
certainly, we found M. de Jonzac; but--I--I was obliged to come in--as
I have some of Pierre's exercises to correct." And then, doubtlessly
wanting to explain how it was that he had come into that room, he
added, slightly confused: "I just came in here to see whether I had
left my books about--I thought--but--I do not see them here--"

He had not taken his eyes off Bijou, and was going away again when the
marchioness, looking at him indulgently, and with an amused expression
in her eyes, called him back.

"Will you not stay and have a smoke here, Monsieur Giraud? Is there
such a hurry as all that for the correction of those exercises?"

"Oh, no, madame!" answered the tutor eagerly, retracing his steps,
"there is no hurry at all."

The old lady leaned forward towards Madame de Rueille, who was
silently working at a handsome piece of tapestry, and said to her with
a smile: "He is not like the abbe--this young man!"

Bertrade lifted her pretty head and answered gravely:

"No!"

"You look as though you pitied him?"

"I do, with all my heart."

"And why, pray?"

"Because the poor fellow, after coming to us as gay as a lark a
fortnight ago, and winning all our hearts, will go away from here sad
and unhappy, his heart heavy with grief or anger."

"Oh, you always see the black side of things; he thinks Bijou is
sweet, he admires her and likes to be with her; but that is all!"

"You know very well, grandmamma, that Bijou is perfectly adorable, and
so attractive that everyone is fascinated by her."

The marchioness pointed to her great-nephew, Jean de Blaye, who, ever
since he had left the window, did not appear to be taking any notice
of what was going on around him.

"Everyone?" she said, almost angrily; "no, not everyone. Look at Jean,
he is as blind as the abbe!"

Jean de Blaye was sitting motionless in a large arm-chair; there was
an impassive expression on his face, and a far-away look in his eyes.
He appeared to be in a reverie, and the younger lady glanced across at
him, as she answered:

"I am afraid that he is only acting blind!"

"Oh, nonsense!" said Madame de Bracieux delighted, "do you think that
Bijou could possibly interest Jean enough, for instance, to keep him,
even for a time, from his actresses, his horses, his theatres, and the
stupid life he generally leads?--You really think so?"

"I do think so!"

"And how long have you thought this?"

"Oh, only just now. When he told us with such conviction that '_he did
not care all that much about being reminded of Paris_,' I felt that he
was speaking the truth. I began to wonder then what could have made
him forget Paris. I wondered and wondered--and I found out."

"Bijou?"

"Exactly."

"So much the better if that really should be so. For my part, I do not
think it looks like it. He takes no notice of her."

"When we are watching him--no."

"He seems low-spirited and absent-minded."

"He would be for less cause than this. Jean never does things in a
half-and-half way. If he were in love, I mean seriously, he would be
desperately in love; and if he were to be desperately in love with
Bijou, or if he were to discover that he was falling in love with her,
it certainly would not be a thing for him to rejoice over. He
cannot--no matter how much he might wish it--he cannot marry Bijou.
It is not only that he is her cousin, but he is not rich enough."

"He has about twenty thousand pounds. Bijou has eight thousand, to
which I shall add another four thousand, that makes twelve
thousand--total between them thirty-two thousand."

"Well, and can you imagine Bijou with an income of about nine hundred
pounds a year?"

"No. I know that _she_ would consider it enough. She makes her own
dresses; everyone says they do that, but, in this case, it is a fact.
Then she is very industrious and clever; she understands housekeeping
wonderfully well, and for the last four years has managed everything
both here and in Paris; but I could not possibly reconcile myself to
the idea of seeing her enduring the hardships of a limited income--and
it would be limited. Good heavens! though, I hope she will not go and
fall in love with Jean."

"Oh, I do not think she will."

"You see, he is charming, the wretch; and it appears he is a great
favourite?"

"Yes, certainly; but then Bijou is made so much of. She is surrounded
and adored by everyone, so that she has not much time to fall in love
herself!"

"And then, too, she is such a child!" said the marchioness, glancing
at her grand-daughter with infinite tenderness.

Bijou was standing near the billiard-table watching the game, and
laughing as she teased the players.

At a little distance from her, the young professor was also standing
motionless, watching her with a rapturous expression in his eyes.

Suddenly Jean de Blaye rose abruptly, looking annoyed, and moved away
in the direction of the door that led to the flight of steps going
down to the garden.

"Wait a minute!" called out Denyse, "wait, and let me give you a
flower!"

She went to the basket, and taking out a yellow rose scarcely opened,
she crossed over to her cousin, and put it in his button-hole.

"There!" she said, stepping back and looking satisfied, "you are very
fine like that!" And then turning towards the tutor, she said in the
most winning way, and with perfect ease: "Monsieur Giraud, will you
have a rosebud too?"

The young man took the flower, and, almost trembling with confusion,
tried in vain to fasten it in his coat.

"Ah! you can't do it!" said the young girl, taking it gently from
him. "Let me put it in for you, will you?"

He was so tall that, in order to reach his button-hole, she was
obliged to stand on tip-toes. She slipped the flower through slowly,
and with the greatest care, and when she had finished she gave a
little tap to the shiny revers of the old coat, which were all out of
shape and faded.

"There, that's right!" she said, smiling pleasantly; "like that, it is
perfectly lovely!"

The marchioness, her eyes shining with affection, was looking at her.

"What do you think of her? isn't she sweet?" the old lady said to
Bertrade, who seemed to be admiring Bijou also.

Madame de Rueille looked at the young tutor, who was standing still in
the middle of the room.

"Poor fellow!" she said.

"What, still! Well, decidedly, Monsieur Giraud appears to interest you
very much!"

"Very much indeed! I am sorry for people who are sensitive and
unhappy; for, you see, I am one of the merry ones myself!"

"Oh!--I don't know about that. You said just now that Jean was acting
blind; well, I should say you were acting merry. You are merry, for
instance, when anyone is looking at you."

The young wife did not answer, she only pointed towards Bijou.

"She is one of the genuinely merry ones, at any rate, is she not,
grandmamma?"

Bijou had just given the children some flowers, and was now speaking
to the Abbe Courteil.

"And you too, monsieur, I want to decorate you with my flowers! There,
now, just tell me if that rose is not beautiful? Ah, if you want a
lovely rose, that certainly is one."

She was holding out to him an enormous rose, which was full blown, and
looked like a regular cabbage.

The abbe had risen from his seat without loosing the bag containing
the loto numbers. He looked scared, and stammered out as he stepped
back:

"Mademoiselle, it is indeed a superb flower; but--but I should not
know where to put it. The button-holes of my cassock are so small, the
stalk would never go through. I am very much obliged, mademoiselle, I
really am. I--but there is no place to put it--it is--"

"Oh, but there is room for it in your girdle," she answered, laughing.
"There, monsieur, look there--it is as though it had been made for
it!"

Standing at some little distance away, she pushed the long stalk of
the flower between the abbe's girdle and cassock.

He thanked her as he bowed awkwardly.

"I am much obliged, mademoiselle, it is very kind of you; I am quite
touched--quite touched."

At every movement the rose swung about in the loose girdle. It moved
backwards and forwards in the most comical way, with ridiculous little
jerks, showing up to advantage against the cassock which was all
twisted like a screw round the abbe's thin body.

"Now, I am going to arrange my vases," remarked Bijou, when she had
adorned everyone with flowers.

"Where?" asked M. de Rueille.

"Why, in the dining-room, in the drawing-room, in the hall, here,
everywhere."

"We will come and help you!" exclaimed several voices.

"Oh, no!--instead of helping me you would just hinder me."

She picked up her basket and went away, looking very merry and fresh.
Her muslin dress fluttered round her, as pink and pretty as she
herself was. As soon as she had disappeared, it seemed as though a
veil of melancholy had suddenly spread itself over the large room. No
one spoke, and there was not a sound to be heard except the knocking
together of the billiard-balls, and the rattling of the numbers, which
the abbe kept shaking all the time, bringing into this game, as into
everything else, the methodical precision which was habitual to him.

"Grandmamma," said Henry de Bracieux at length, "you ought not to
allow Bijou to give us the slip like this, especially at Bracieux. In
Paris it is not so bad, but here, when she leaves us we are done for;
she is the ray of sunshine that lights up the whole house."

The marchioness shrugged her shoulders.

"You talk nonsense; you forget that very soon Bijou will _give us the
slip_, as you so elegantly put it, in a more decisive way."

"What do you mean? She is not going to be married?"

"Well, I hope so."

"You have someone in view?" asked M. de Rueille, not very well
pleased.

"No, not at all; but, you see, the said someone may present himself
one day or another--not here, of course, there is no one round here
who would be suitable for Bijou; but it is very probable that this
winter in Paris--"

Henry de Bracieux, a fine-looking young man of twenty-five years of
age, with a strong resemblance to his sister Bertrade, was listening
to the words of the marchioness. His eyebrows were knitted, and there
was a serious expression on his face. He missed a very easy cannon,
and his brother-in-law was astonished.

"Oh, hang it!" he exclaimed; "it is too warm to play billiards. I am
going out to have a nap in the hammock."

His sister watched him as he left the room, and then turning towards
the marchioness, she whispered:

"He, too!"

The old lady replied, with a touch of ill-humour:

"Bijou cannot marry all the family, anyhow. Ah! here she is, we must
not talk about it."

Just at that moment the graceful figure of the young girl appeared in
the doorway leading to the stone steps.

"How many people will there be to dinner on Thursday, grandmamma?" she
asked, without entering the room.

"Why, I have not counted. There are the La Balues--"

"That makes four."

"The Juzencourts--"

"Six."

"Young Bernes--"

"Seven."

"Madame de Nezel--"

"Eight."

"That's all."

"And we are ten to start with, that makes eighteen. We can do with
twenty; will you invite the Dubuissons, grandmamma? I should so like
to have Jeanne."

"I am perfectly willing. I will write to them."

"It isn't worth while. I shall have to go to Pont-sur-Loire to get
things in, and I can invite them."

"My poor dear child! you are going to the town through this heat?"

"We _must_ see about the things for this dinner. To-day is
Tuesday--and then I want to speak to Mere Rafut, and see if she can
come to work. I have no dresses to put on, and there will be the
races, and some dances."

"Oh!" said the marchioness, evidently annoyed, "you are going to have
that frightful old woman again."

"Why, grandmamma, she's a very nice, straightforward sort of woman,
and then she works so well."

"That may be; but her appearance is terribly against her."

"Yes, grandmamma, that is so, she is not beautiful--Mere Rafut is old
and poor, and old age and poverty do not improve the appearance; but
it is so convenient for me to have her; and she is so happy to come
here, and be well-paid, and well-fed, and well-treated, after being
accustomed to her actresses, who either pay her badly or not at all."

By this time Bijou was standing just behind Madame de Bracieux's
arm-chair. She added in a coaxing way, as she threw her pretty pink
arms around the old lady's neck:

"It is quite a charity, grandmamma; and a charity not only to Mere
Rafut, but to me."

"Have her then," answered the marchioness, "have your frightful old
woman--let her come as much as you like!"

"Well, then, good-bye for the present."

"How are you going?--in the victoria?"

"No, in the trap; I shall be quicker if I take the trap--I can go
there in twenty-five minutes.

"And _you_ are going to drive?"

"Why, yes, grandmamma."

"And with the sun so hot? You'll have a stroke."

"Shall I drive you, Bijou?" proposed M. de Rueille. "I want to get
some tobacco, and some powder, and two fishing-rods to replace those
that Pierrot broke. I shall be glad to go to town."

"And I shall be delighted for you to drive me."

"When shall we start?"

"At once, please."

Just as they were going out of the room, the marchioness called out to
them:

"Beware of accidents. Don't go too quickly downhill."

"You can be quite easy, grandmamma, I never lose my head."




II.


IN the evening as they were driving through Pont-sur-Loire on their
way back to Bracieux, M. de Rueille said to Denyse:

"There is no mistake about it, Bijou, my dear with you there is no
chance of passing by unnoticed. Oh, dear, no!"

She glanced at the foot-passengers, who were turning round to look at
her with intense curiosity, and answered:

"It's my pink dress that--"

"No, it is not your dress, it is you yourself."

Her large violet eyes grew larger with astonishment as she asked:

"I, myself? But why?"

"Oh, Bijou, my dear, it is not at all nice of you to act like that
with your poor old cousin."

"You think I am acting?" she exclaimed, looking more and more
astounded.

"Well, it appears like it to me; it is impossible for you not to know
how pretty you are. In the first place, you have eyes, and then you
are told often enough for--"

"I am told?--by whom?"

"By everyone. Why, even I, although I am nearly your uncle and a
settled-down respectable sort of man."

"'Nearly my uncle.' No--considering that Bertrade is my first cousin;
and, as to the rest--" She stopped abruptly, and then finished with a
laugh. "You flatter yourself!"

"Alas, no! I shall soon be forty-two."

She looked at him in surprise.

"Oh, well! you don't look it."

"Thank you! There now! Do you see how all the natives are gazing at
you? I can assure you, Bijou, that when I come to do any shopping
alone, they do not watch me so eagerly."

"I tell you it is this pink dress that astonishes them."

"But why should they be astonished? They are accustomed to that,
because you often come to Pont-sur-Loire, and you always wear pink."

Ever since she had left off her mourning for her parents, who had died
four years ago, Denyse had adopted pink as her only colour for all her
dresses. The reason was, she said, because her grandmother preferred
seeing her dressed thus. Anyhow, this pink, a very pale, soft shade,
like that of the petals of a rose just as it begins to fall, suited
her to perfection, as it was almost exactly the same delicate colour
as her skin.

She always wore it, and when the weather was cold or gloomy she would
put on a long, gathered cloak, which covered her entirely, and on
taking this dark wrap off, she would come out, looking as fresh and
sweet as a flower, and seem to brighten up everything around her.

Her dresses were always of batiste, muslin, or some soft woollen
material, comparatively inexpensive. The greatest luxury to which she
treated herself now and again was a _taffetas_ or surah silk. And
then, nothing could be more simple than the way these dresses were
made--always the same little gathered blouses and straight skirts, and
never any trimming whatever, except, perhaps, in the winter, a narrow
edging of fur.

"Yes, that's quite true," she said thoughtfully, "I am always in pink.
You don't like that?"

"Not like it? I--good heavens!--why, I think it is perfectly charming!
I tell you, Bijou, that if I were not an old man, I should make love
to you all the time!"

"You are not an old man!"

"Very many thanks! If, however, you do not look upon me as quite an
old man--which, by the bye, is certainly debatable--I am at any rate a
married man."

"Yes, that's true, and so much the better for you, for there is
nothing more stupid and tiresome than men who are always making love."

"Well, then, you must know a terrible number of people who are stupid
and tiresome."

"Why?"

"Because everyone makes love to you--more or less!"

"Not at all! Why, just think! I was brought up in the most isolated
way, like a veritable savage. When papa and mamma were living, they
were always ill, and I was shut up with them, and never saw anyone. It
is scarcely four years since I came to live with grandmamma, where I
do see people."

"Oh, yes; plenty of them, and no mistake!"

"You speak as though that annoyed you?"

She glanced sideways at Rueille, her eyes shining beneath her drooping
eyelids, whilst he replied, with a touch of irritation in his voice in
spite of himself:

"Annoyed me, but why should it? Are your affairs any business of mine;
have I any voice in the matter of anything that concerns you?"

"Which means that if you had a voice in the matter--?"

"Ah, there would certainly be many changes, and many reforms that I
should make."

"For instance?"

"Well, I should not allow you, if I were in your grandmamma's place,
to be quite as affable and as ready to welcome everyone; I should want
to keep you rather more for myself, and prevent your letting strangers
have so much of you."

"Yes," she said, with a pensive expression, "perhaps you are right."

"And all the more so because we shall have you to ourselves for so
short a time now."

The large candid eyes, with their sweet expression, were fixed on Paul
de Rueille as he continued:

"You will be marrying soon? You will be leaving us?"

Bijou laughed. "How you arrange things. There is no question, as far
as I know, of my marriage."

"There is nothing definite--no; at least, I do not think so. But,
practically, it is the one subject in question, and grandmamma thinks
of nothing else."

"Oh, well, I am not like her then, for I scarcely ever give it a
thought." And then she added, turning grave all at once: "Besides, my
marriage is very problematical."

"Problematical?"

"Why, yes,--in the first place, I should want the man who marries me
to love me."

"Oh, well, you can be easy on that score; you will have no difficulty
about that."

Her fresh young voice took an almost solemn tone as she continued:

"And then I should want to love him, too."

"Oh, so you will. One always does love one's husband--to begin with,"
said Rueille carelessly; and then he stopped short, thinking that the
words "to begin with" were unnecessary.

Bijou had not understood, however, nor even heard, for she asked:

"What did you say?"

"I said that he will be very happy."

"Who will be happy?"

"The man you love!"

"I hope so. I shall do all I can for that!"

M. de Rueille seemed to be annoyed and irritated. He said, in a
disagreeable way, as though he wanted to discourage Denyse in her
dreams of the future:

"Yes, but supposing you do not happen to meet with him?"

"Well, then, I shall die an old maid, that's all! But I do not see why
I should not meet with him. I do not ask for anything impossible,
after all!"

In a mocking tone, and a trifle aggressive, he, asked:

"Would it be very indiscreet to ask you what you expect?"

"Oh, not indiscreet in the slightest degree, for I can only answer
just as I have already answered, I should simply want _to love him_! I
do not care at all about money; I neither understand money nor worship
it!" She turned towards her cousin, and said, in conclusion, as she
looked up into his face: "Now, I'll tell you, I would agree to a
marriage like Bertrade's."

"With another husband," he stammered out.

Very simply and naturally, and without the slightest embarrassment,
she said, laughing:

"Oh, dear no! No, I think the husband is quite nice."

M. de Rueille did not answer. He could not help feeling some emotion,
in spite of himself, at this idea that Bijou might have cared for him.
It seemed to him that the evening air was delicious, and never had the
setting sun, which was sinking slowly like a ball of flame into the
Loire, appeared more brilliant to him. The little gig was so narrow,
that, with every oscillation, his elbow touched the young girl's arm,
whilst her soft fair hair, escaping from her large straw hat, kept
brushing against his cheek, which began to burn.

Bijou noticed his absent-mindedness.

"It seems to me," she said, laughing, "that you are not listening much
to the description of my ideal."

"Oh, yes!"

"Oh, no!--by the bye, have we done all the errands?"

She took out of her pocket a long list, which she began to read:

"_Ice. Cakes. Fruit. Fish. The Dubuissons. Speak to the butcher. Pink
gauze. Mere Rafut. Hat. Pierrot's books. Henry's cartridges (16)._"

"What's that?" asked M. de Rueille, who was looking at the list.
"Henry has commissioned you to get his cartridges instead of telling
me to get them?"

"Yes; the time before last when he asked you, you forgot them; and
last time you brought him number twelve cartridges, and his are number
sixteen; therefore, he preferred--"

"Ah! I can understand that; but they do take advantage of you--and
the children too have taken advantage. '_Balloon for Marcel, pencils
for Robert_;' Fred is the only one who has not given you any
commissions. You need not despair though, he is only three years old;
he will begin next year."

"He did not give me any commissions, but I have brought him a picture
book--'Puss in Boots.' He adores cats, so that will amuse him."

"How delicious you are!"

"Delicious! Is that saying enough? Could you not find something rather
more eulogistic? Let us see--try now!"

She was still glancing down the list; and Paul de Rueille pointed with
the handle of his whip to a line written in pencil:

"What's that?--'_Tell grandmamma about La Noriniere!_'"

"Why, I met the Juzencourts, and they said I was to be sure to tell
grandmamma that 'The Noriniere' is to be inhabited."

"Ah, Clagny has sold it?"

"No; he is coming back to it. It appears that he is coming every
summer."

"Ah, so much the better. Grandmamma will be very glad of that."

"Yes, she likes him very much. I do not know him, this M. de Clagny,
but I have often heard about him."

"Don't you remember seeing him a long time ago?"

"Why, no!"

"Well, he was your godfather, anyhow!"

"You are dreaming! Uncle Alexis is my godfather."

"Your Uncle Jonzac is the godfather of Denyse, but it was M. de Clagny
who was the godfather of Bijou. Yes, he said once, speaking of you
when you were very little, _the Bijou_--and the name suited you so
well that you have had it ever since."

"Don't you think it is rather ridiculous to call me Bijou now that I
am old?"

"You look as though you were fourteen, and you always will look like
that, I promise you."

"Isn't it rather risky to promise me that?"

She laughed as she glanced at him, and he, too, looked at her as
though he could not take his eyes away from the pretty, fresh young
face turned towards him. He was paying no attention to the road, which
was in a very bad state, until suddenly the right wheel went into a
rut, and the gig gave a jerk, which sent Denyse on to him. She clung
to his arm with all her might, and they remained an instant like this
until they were able to regain their balance. The wheel, then, in some
way or another, got clear of the deep rut in which it had been caught,
and the horse went on again at a quick pace as before.

"That's right!" said Bijou, laughing heartily. "I certainly thought we
should be upset."

"It was as near a shave as possible," he answered gravely.

She loosened the grasp of her small fingers, which had been pressed
tightly on her cousin's shoulder.

"Is it really over?" she asked. "You are not going to begin again, I
hope?"

M. de Rueille did not answer. He was looking at her with an
absent-minded, troubled expression in his eyes.

"Yes; but, instead of looking at me, do look before you," she went on.
"We shall get into another rut directly, you'll see."

"Oh, no! oh, no!" he murmured, as though he were in some dream.

"I'm sure we shall be late for dinner," said Bijou; "and you know
grandmamma does not altogether like that."

Rueille touched the pony's back with the whip, and the animal,
springing forward, jerked the little carriage violently, and then
started off at a mad pace.

This time Bijou looked stupefied.

"What's that for?" she asked. "Whatever is the matter with you to-day?
Just now you almost upset us, and now you touch Colonel with the whip,
and you ought not to let him even guess that you have one; you have
made him take fright," and then, seeing that the horse was calming
down, she added, "or nearly so; you are not yourself at all."

"No," he answered mechanically, "I am not myself."

At the pony's first plunge Denyse had taken M. de Rueille's arm again.
It was not that she was in the least afraid, but she was perched on a
seat which was too high for her, so that she could not keep her
balance, and, consequently, she tried to hold on to something firm.
Without loosing the arm on to which she was hanging, she leant towards
her cousin, and asked, with evident interest:

"Not yourself? What is the matter? Are you ill?"

"Ill? No! at least, not exactly."

"What do you mean by _not exactly_? Oh, but you must not be ill. We
have to work at our play this evening, and if you do not set about
it, all of you, and in earnest, why, it will never be finished for
the race-ball."

"I don't care a hang about the play, and--I--if I were you--"

He stopped abruptly, evidently embarrassed.

"Well?" asked Bijou, "what is it? You were going to say something."

"Yes," he stammered out, scarcely knowing how to put what he wanted to
say. "I was going to remark that the design Jean has made for
your--for Hebe's dress--"

"Well?"

"Well, it isn't the thing at all; there is too little of it."

"Too little of it? Nonsense!"

"It isn't nonsense. I say it is not the thing for a woman, and
especially a young girl like you, to appear like that."

Bijou looked at Paul de Rueille with a bewildered expression on her
face, and then burst out laughing.

"Oh, you are queer; you look exactly like a jealous husband."

"Jealous!" he stammered out, vexed and ill at ease. "It isn't for me
to be jealous, but I--"

"No, certainly, but all the same, without being jealous, you men do
not like a woman to look pretty, or to be nice, or amusing, for
anyone else's benefit than just your own."

"Well, admitting that that is so, it is quite natural."

"Ah! you think so? Oh, well, a woman, on the contrary, is always glad
when the men she likes are admired; she is delighted when other people
like them too."

"Nonsense! You do not know anything about it, my dear Bijou. You are
most deliciously inexperienced in such things fortunately."

"Why _fortunately_?" she asked, opening her soft, innocent eyes wide
in astonishment.

"Because--"

He stopped short, and Bijou insisted, pinching his arm.

"Well, go on--do go on."

"No, it would be too complicated," he answered, evidently ill at ease,
and trying to shake off the grasp of the strong little hand.

"Too complicated!" repeated Bijou, turning red. "I detest being put
off like that. Why will you not explain what you were thinking?"

"Explain what I was thinking," he said, in a sort of fright. "Oh, no!"

"No? Well, it is not nice of you."

They went on for a minute or two without speaking, Bijou calm and
smiling, and her companion with a serious, uneasy look on his face.

Just as the gig was entering the avenue, Bijou turned towards M. de
Rueille, and touching him, this time very gently, with her little
hand, she said in a penetrating voice, which, in his agitated state of
mind, was the last straw:

"As it vexes you so much I won't wear that costume. We will get Jean
to design another for me."

He seized the hand that was resting on his arm and pressed it to his
lips with an almost brutal tenderness.

Bijou did not appear to like this passionate display of feeling. She
drew her hand away quietly, but there was a strange gleam in her eyes
as she said:

"Take care of the gate, it is a sharp turn remember, and you are not
in luck to-day."

She then began to collect her parcels calmly, and until they arrived
at the door of the _chateau_ she was silent and thoughtful. The first
dinner-bell was just ringing, and Bijou ran upstairs to her room, and
ten minutes later entered the drawing-room, arrayed in a dainty dress
of rose-leaf coloured chiffon, with a large bunch of roses on the
shoulder.

"Why! you don't mean to say that you are here already!" exclaimed
Madame de Rueille admiringly. "I will wager anything that that slow
coach of a Paul is not ready."

"Did you do all the commissions?" asked the marchioness.

"Yes, grandmamma, and I have a special one for you. The Juzencourts
wished me to tell you that M. de Clagny is coming back to live at The
Noriniere, and that he will come every year."

"Oh!" exclaimed Madame de Bracieux, looking very delighted, "I am glad
to hear that. I never expected to see him come back here."

"Why?" asked Bijou.

"Well, because when he was here he had a great grief, just at an age
when painful impressions can never be effaced."

"At what age is that?" asked Jean de Blaye, with a touch of sarcasm in
his voice.

"Forty-eight. And when you are that age, you will not be as fond of
ridiculing everything as you are now, my dear boy; and it won't be so
long before you get there as you think either."

"So much the better," he answered, smiling; "that must be the ideal
age--the age when one's heart is at rest."

"In some cases it is at rest before that age," said the marchioness
slily, looking at her nephew.

Jean shrugged his shoulders.

"Yes, but it wakes up again, or, at least, it might wake up; one is
not quite easy about it; but at forty-eight ..."

"Ah! that's your opinion. Well, it is twelve years ago now since my
old friend Clagny was forty-eight. He must therefore be sixty at
present, and I would wager anything that his heart has never been at
rest--never. You understand me?" And then in a lower tone, so that
Bijou, who was just talking to Bertrade, should not hear, she added:
"Neither his heart nor he himself."

Jean laughed.

"Oh, well! he's a curiosity this friend of yours. Why does he not go
about in a show? He would get some money."

"He has no need of money."

"He is rich, then?"

"Atrociously rich!"

"Well, but what's he got?"

"Sixteen thousand a year. Don't you consider that a fair amount?"

"Yes," he answered, without any sign of enthusiasm, "yes, of course,
that's very fair--for anyone who has not got it dishonestly." And
then, after a pause, he asked: "What was this great trouble that he
had?"

"Oh, I'll tell you about it when Bijou is not here."

The young girl, however, could scarcely have heard what they were
saying. She was joking with Pierrot, who had just come into the room.
She wanted to part his hair again, and Pierrot, a tall youth of
seventeen, strong-looking, but overgrown, with long feet and hands,
and a forehead covered with extraordinary bumps, was trying to make
himself short, so that the young girl might reach up to his bushy,
colourless hair. He was bending his head, and looking straight before
him, with a far-away expression in his eyes, evidently enjoying having
his hair stroked by the skilful little hands.

Madame de Bracieux, seeing that Bijou was at a safe distance, ventured
in a low voice to tell her nephew the details about the love-affair,
which had in a way changed the whole life of her friend, M. de Clagny.

Suddenly Denyse came across to the marchioness.

"Grandmamma--I forgot--the Dubuissons cannot come to dinner on
Thursday, but M. Dubuisson will bring Jeanne on Friday, and leave her
with us for a week."

"Well, then, we shall only be eighteen to dinner."

"No, we shall be twenty all the same; because I saw the Tourvilles,
and I gave them an invitation from you; I thought that--"

"You did quite right."

"Oh!" exclaimed Bertrade, "the Tourvilles and the Juzencourts at the
same time! We shall be sure, then, of hearing their stories of William
the Conqueror and Charles the Bold!"

"Oh, well!" exclaimed Bijou, laughing, "it will be much better like
that, we shall have it altogether, once for all, at any rate."

Just as dinner was announced, M. de Rueille entered the room. He had
an absent-minded look, and his eyes shone strangely. He took his seat
silently at table, and did not talk during the meal.




III.


BIJOU, assisted by Pierrot, was handing the coffee round, when
suddenly she darted off in pursuit of Paul de Rueille, who had just
come out of the drawing-room, and was descending the steps which led
on to the terrace.

"Stop, stop! Where are you going?" she called out.

"Oh, only for a stroll," he answered, without looking round, "to get a
breath of air, if that is possible with this heat."

Bijou had already caught him up.

"Oh, no, what about the play?--You must come and work."

"My head aches."

"Work will take it away! You really must come, we have only three
days."

"But I am not indispensable; you can do without me," said Rueille
irritably.

"Oh, but you always do the writing."

"From dictation; it is not necessary to be very clever for that."

"Yes it is; and then, too, we are used to you."

She was on the step above him, and, bending forward, she put her arms
round his neck, and said in a coaxing tone:

"Paul, dear, come now, just to please me, you would be so nice, so
very nice!"

M. de Rueille, turning abruptly, unclasped the soft arms, which
encircled his neck and rested against his face.

"All right, all right!" he said, in a hoarse voice, "I'll come!"

The young girl stepped back, and in the evening-light he could see her
large astonished eyes shining as she gazed at him.

"How cross you are!" she said timidly. "What's the matter with you?"
He did not answer, and she asked again: "Won't you tell me?"

"No, no," he said curtly, and then he re-mounted the steps and went
into the drawing-room.

Bijou followed him, and whispered to Bertrade:

"I don't know what is the matter with your husband, but he is very
bad-tempered."

Madame de Rueille glanced at Paul. He looked rather fagged and
nervous, and was trying to appear at his ease, as he talked and
laughed noisily with the tutor, who, on the contrary, was silent and
reserved.

"Yes, certainly something is the matter with him," said Bertrade,
rather uneasy at seeing her husband so strange. "I do not know at all
what it is, though," she added.

"Only imagine," Bijou proceeded to explain to the whole room, "Paul
wanted to go for a stroll instead of coming to work. Yes, and it was
not very easy to get him here, I can assure you."

With a resigned look, M. de Rueille took his seat at a side table with
a marble top. He then took up the manuscript, and, turning to the page
which was commenced, dipped a long, quill pen into the ink.

"When you are ready?"--he said calmly.

"Well, but first of all, where are we?" asked M. de Jonzac.

"Scene three of the second act."

"Still?" exclaimed Bijou, astonished.

"Alas, yes."

"My dear children, you will never have it finished," remarked the
marchioness.

"Oh, yes, grandmamma, we shall," said Bijou merrily; "you will see how
we are going to work now. Come now, we are at the third scene of the
second act,--it is where the poet is defending himself after the
accusations--rather spiteful ones, too--which Venus has brought
against him."

"Well, and what then?" asked M. de Rueille after a pause.

"Well," said Bijou, "in my opinion, we want a little couplet there;
what do you think, Jean?"

Jean de Blaye, with an absorbed look on his face, was lounging in a
deep arm-chair, his head thrown back on the cushions. He appeared to
be in a reverie, and had not even heard the question.

"Are you asleep?" asked Bijou.

"Did you speak to me?" he asked, turning towards her.

"Why, yes, I did have the honour of speaking to you. I asked you
whether a couplet would not be the right thing there--a couplet that
would go to some well-known air?"

"Yes," he replied, in an absent sort of way, "that would do very
well."

"All right, compose it then."

Jean gave a start; he was quite roused now.

"I am to compose it,--why should I be the one to do it?"

"Because you always do them."

"Well, that's a nice reason," protested Jean. "I should say that is
precisely why it is someone else's turn. You have only to set the
others to work--Henry, or Uncle Alexis, or M. Giraud, or even
Pierrot."

"Why do you say _even_?" asked Pierrot, annoyed. "I should do them
quite as well as you."

"Well, do them then! for my part, I have had enough of it."

"Jean," said Bijou, in a pleading tone, "don't leave us in the lurch,
please."

She was going across to him, her pretty head bent forward, and a most
comically beseeching little pout on her lips, when M. de Rueille rose
abruptly from his seat, and stopped her on the way:

"Oh, he will do your couplets right enough; he likes doing them; sit
down, Bijou."

The young girl stood still in the middle of the room, surprised at
this extraordinary proceeding.

"But why don't _you_ sit down?" she exclaimed. "What have you come
away from your table for?"

"Ah! I have no right to leave the table without your permission?"

"Jean!" began Bijou again, "come now, Jean!"

Once again M. de Rueille interposed.

"Why don't you kneel down to him at once?" he said, in a sharp tone.

"Goodness! I don't mind doing that even if he will only be
persuaded."

She was darting across to her cousin, but Rueille caught her arm, and
said angrily:

"What nonsense! it is perfectly ridiculous!"

Bijou looked at him in amazement, and stammered out:

"It is you who are ridiculous!"

"Oh, yes, of course," he answered, speaking harshly, "it is I who
ought to go and sit down, and I am the one who is ridiculous; in fact,
I am everything I ought not to be, and I always do everything I ought
not to do."

"Whatever is the matter, children?" asked Madame de Bracieux.

M. de Jonzac explained, as he emptied his pipe by tapping it gently
against a piece of furniture.

"Heaven have mercy upon us! It is nothing less than Paul quarrelling
with Bijou!"

"With Bijou?" exclaimed the old lady, in perfect amazement.

"Paul quarrelling with Bijou!" repeated Madame de Rueille, putting
down the newspaper she had been reading, "impossible!"

"Yes, really!" affirmed the abbe, quite horrified. "M. de Rueille is
vexed with Mademoiselle Denyse!"

"Come here, Bijou!" called out the marchioness, and the young girl
tripped across the room to her grandmamma, and knelt down on the
cushions at her feet.

"You ought not to let Bijou go on in that way with you!" said M. de
Rueille, going up to Jean, and speaking in a low voice.

"Go on in what way? are you dreaming?"

"I am not dreaming at all. Denyse is twenty years old, you know!"

"Twenty-one," corrected the young man.

"All the more reason--she really ought to behave more carefully!"

"Poor child, she behaves perfectly!" and then looking at his cousin,
he added: "I really don't know what's up with you?"

"Oh, I'm in the wrong," murmured M. de Rueille, slightly embarrassed.
"Of course, I'm quite in the wrong!"

"Absolutely so!" said Blaye drily, getting up from his arm-chair.

On seeing him move towards the door, Bijou left the marchioness, and
rushed across to him:

"Oh, no! you are not going away! Grandmamma, tell him that he is not
to leave us like this!"

"Come now, Jean," said the marchioness, half joking and half scolding,
"don't plague them so!"

The young man sat down again in despair.

"And this is the country!" he exclaimed, "this is rest and holiday! I
have to work like a nigger, writing plays--plays with couplets--and
then go to bed regularly at two in the morning, and this is what is
called being in clover!"

Pierrot had listened to this outburst with apparent solemnity.

"Continue, old man," he said jeeringly, "you interest me!"

Bijou laughed, and Jean, looking annoyed, turned towards Pierrot, and
said sarcastically, "You are very witty, my dear boy!"

"Children, you are perfectly insufferable!" exclaimed Madame de
Bracieux, raising her voice. She was looking at them in surprise,
wondering what wind had suddenly risen to bring about this storm. She
could not account for all these disagreeable little speeches, and the
hostile attitude they had taken up, and which was quite a new thing to
the old lady. Once again she called Bijou to her. The young girl was
standing looking round at everyone with a questioning expression in
her soft eyes.

"Do you know what's the matter with them?" asked the marchioness.

"I have no idea, grandmamma," she answered innocently, the wondering
look still on her face.

"Don't you see how cross they are?" continued the marchioness.

"Yes, I can see that they are cross, but I do not know what it's all
about; if it is on account of the play, why, we won't have it! I don't
want to worry everyone with it, just because I like it; but I _do_
like it immensely."

Just at this moment M. de Rueille called out:

"Well, are we going to work at this, yes or no? I have had enough of
sitting waiting here like an imbecile."

"Where are we?" asked Jean, in a way which meant, "As there's no
getting out of it, let us start at once."

"We've told you where we are--" answered Rueille, "we've told you
twice."

Bijou interposed, explaining in a conciliatory tone:

"It is where the poet has to answer Venus."

"Ah, yes! exactly, I remember! She has accused him of all sorts of
things, and you want him to defend himself--"

"In a couplet."

"Yes, I understand--where are you going though?"

Bijou was just crossing the room.

"I am going across to sit by M. Giraud; he won't worry me like all of
you."

The tutor blushed, and moved slightly to make room for her on the
divan on which he was seated. Denyse glided on, and took her place at
his side.

"We are listening," she said.

Jean was twisting a pencil and a piece of paper about in his fingers.

"What did Venus answer?" he asked.

M. de Rueille, with an absent-minded expression on his face, was
watching a moth fluttering round the lamp near him.

"What did Venus answer?" called out several voices together, as loudly
as possible.

M. de Rueille looked aghast, and, stopping his ears, read aloud from
the manuscript:

"'_You know I do not believe a word of it._'"

"Strike that out," said Jean, "and put: '_I do not believe it at all,
you know._' And now the poet answers:

      "'_L'ame d'un symboliste,
      Madame, est un coffret melancolique d'amethyste
      A serrure de diamant.
      Il suffit de savoir l'ouvrir et la comprendre
      Et le tresor eclos illumine la chambre
      Et sourit la tristesse aux levres des amants._'"

"Is that at all amusing?" asked M. de Rueille.

"Well, hang it all!" exclaimed Jean irritably, "I do not say that it
is precisely a _chef-d'oeuvre_! Bijou asked for a couplet--I have
given her a couplet to the best of my ability, but I don't wish to
hinder you from giving us a better one."

"To what air will that go?" asked Bijou.

"Ah, yes, that's true, we want an air for it. What is there?"

"You might put '_Air. J'en guette un petit de mon age_,'" suggested
Rueille.

"Does that go to it?"

"What do you mean by 'does it go to it?'"

"Why, that air."

"I don't know. I don't even know what the air is."

"Then why do you suggest that we should take it?"

"Oh! because I often see things to that air: '_J'en guette un petit de
mon age._' I just remembered seeing it, and there are lots of couplets
that are put to it."

"But the poet's lines are longer than that," remarked Bijou,
"especially the second one. No--one could never sing them to that
air--nor to any other."

"Ah, yes!--I did not think of that."

"Fortunately, Bijou thinks of everything," put in Pierrot, with pride.

"We'll find an air for it presently," said Jean. "Let's go on; do
let's go on, or we never shall finish it. Who's on the stage at
present?"

And then, as M. de Rueille was biting the end of his pen and watching
Bijou, so that he did not appear to have heard, Blaye exclaimed:

"Paul, are you there? or have you gone out for a time?"

"I am there."

"Oh, very well! then will you have the kindness to tell me which of
the characters are at present on the scene?"

"Wait a minute! I'll just look."

"What?" exclaimed Bijou, "do you mean to say you have to look before
you can tell us?"

"Well, you do not imagine, I presume, that I know by heart all the
insane things that each of you has been pleased to dictate to me."

"I know them all anyhow," and then, turning towards Jean de Blaye, she
answered his question. "We have on the scene at present, Venus, the
Poet, Thomas Vireloque, and the Opportunist, and we said yesterday
that after the introduction of the Poet to Venus, we would let Madame
de Stael come in."

"Very well, we will let her enter at once."

"Have you found anyone for Madame de Stael?" asked Rueille; "up to the
present no one has wanted to act her part."

"No," said Bijou; "just now I asked Madame de Juzencourt again, but
she refuses energetically; and if Bertrade refuses too--"

"Bertrade refuses absolutely," replied the young wife, very gently.

"It isn't nice of you."

"Is Madame de Stael indispensable?" asked Uncle Jonzac.

"Quite indispensable," answered Bijou, emphatically. "We must
absolutely find some way of--" And then suddenly breaking off, as a
new idea struck her, she exclaimed gaily: "Why, Henry can take
it--Madame de Stael's _role_; he has scarcely any moustache."

"I?" cried Bracieux. "_I_ act Madame de Stael?"

"She was rather masculine; it will do very well."

"But, good heavens!--I am not going to appear before people I know
arrayed in a low-necked dress, a turban, and all padded up--why, it
would be frightful!"

"Not at all! Oh, come now--you don't want pressing, I hope?"

"And you are not going to spoil the whole thing by being disobliging
over it," added Pierrot, with a virtuous air.

"Disobliging?" exclaimed Henry, turning towards him; "it is very
evident that you are not in my place. By the bye, though, you might
very well be in my place;" and then seeing that Pierrot looked
horror-stricken, he continued: "Why shouldn't you take it instead of
me--you have less moustache even than I have!"

"Yes, but I am too scraggy," declared Pierrot cunningly. "Madame de
Stael was rather a stout-looking woman."

"Scraggy? you, the athlete!"

Jean de Blaye knocked the floor with a billiard-cue for silence.

"We will think about who is to act Madame de Stael when we have found
out what she has to say--Well, then, she enters--Are you not going to
write, Paul?"

"What do you want me to write?"

"Well, just write: '_Madame de Stael enters by_--' Yes, but that's
the point--by which door does she enter?"

"I have put '_from the back of stage._' Whenever you don't tell me how
they come in, I always put '_from the back of stage._'"

"All right! Then we will leave '_from the back of the stage._'"


     "_Madame de Stael (to Thomas Vireloque)_: 'I am Madame de
     Stael.'

     _Thomas Vireloque_: 'Beg pardon?'

     _Madame de Stael_: 'I am Madame de Stael.'

     _Venus_: 'What have you to tell us?'

     _The Opportunist_: 'It is very curious--I took you for a
     Turk.'

     _The Poet_: 'And I--'"


"Wait a minute!" said M. de Rueille, "I've made a mistake."

"How could you?"

"How could I? The same way we generally do make mistakes, of course--I
wasn't thinking."

"That's about it," said Bijou. "I don't know what's the matter with
you, but you certainly are absent-minded this evening."

Without answering, Rueille drew his quill-pen across the paper,
bearing on heavily, so that the pen gave a plaintive screech.

"What are you doing now?" asked Jean.

"I am crossing it out."

"What are you crossing out?"

"Well, I had written the same sentences over four times each."

Bijou and Blaye got up to examine M. de Rueille's work, and the young
girl read out:


     "_Madame de Stael_: 'I am Madame de Stael.'

     _Thomas Vireloque_: 'Beg pardon?'

     _Madame de Stael_; 'I am Madame de Stael.'

     _Thomas Vireloque_: 'Beg pardon?'

     _Madame de Stael_; 'I am Madame de Stael.'"


"Oh, yes," said Bijou, "you must cross that out!"

"No, leave it as it is, on the contrary," protested Jean, laughing;
"they'll think that Maeterlinck collaborated with us--it will be
capital."

"Supposing we were to retire," proposed M. de Jonzac. "Paul is
half-asleep, that's why he wrote the same thing over three times
without noticing it. Abbe Courteil is fast asleep, and, as for me, I
am dying to follow his example."

"Oh," said Bijou, "it is scarcely one o'clock."

"Well, but it seems to me that in the country--What do you say about
the matter, Monsieur Giraud?"

"Oh, as for me, monsieur, I could sit up all night without feeling
sleepy," replied the young tutor, without taking his eyes off Bijou.

"My dear children," said the marchioness, getting up, "your uncle is
quite right, you must go to bed. Bijou, will you see that the books
you had out of the library are put back?"

"Yes grandmamma, I will put them back myself."

When the others had gone upstairs, M. de Rueille asked:

"Shall I help you, Bijou? two will do it more quickly--"

"No, you don't know anything about the library; you would mix them all
up. I must have someone who knows where the books go." And then
turning towards the tutor, who was just going out of the room, she
said to him, in the most charming way, as though to excuse the liberty
she was taking: "Monsieur Giraud, would _you_ help me to put the books
up?"

The young man stopped short, too delighted even for words. As he
remained standing there, she pointed to the open door leading into the
hall and said gently:

"Will you shut the door, please? And then, if you will take Moliere, I
will bring Aristophanes, and we will come back for the others--yes,
that's it."

As she tripped along with the books, she chattered away, not as though
she were addressing her companion, but rather as though she were going
on with her thoughts aloud.

"What was Jean looking for in Aristophanes when he only wanted to make
Thomas Vireloque and Madame de Stael talk?" And then breaking off
abruptly, she asked:

"Do you think it will be interesting--our play?"

"Oh, yes, mademoiselle."

"Why do you never help us? you ought to work at it, too."

"Oh, I am not very well up in that sort of thing, mademoiselle;
politics and society talk are like sealed books to me, and I do not
exactly see either--"

"And then, probably, you would rather be just a spectator?"

"Unfortunately, mademoiselle, to my great regret, I shall not even be
that."

"What?" she exclaimed, in amazement, "you will not see our play?"

"No, mademoiselle."

"But, why?"

"Oh!" he replied, dreadfully embarrassed, "for a very ridiculous
reason."

"But what is it?"

"Mademoiselle--I--"

"Do please tell me why?" she said, and as she leaned forward towards
him, looking so graceful and charming, the perfume from her hair
plunged the young man into a sort of enervating torpor.

"Why will you not tell me?" she said at length, almost sadly; "don't
you look upon me a little as your friend?"

"Oh, mademoiselle," he stammered out, "I--I cannot appear at this
soiree because--you will see how prosaic my reason is--the fact is, I
have not a dress-coat."

"But you have plenty of time to send for your dress-coat; besides, you
will want it for Thursday, there is a dinner on Thursday."

Giraud blushed crimson.

"But, mademoiselle, I cannot send for it either for Thursday or for
later on, because I--I haven't one."

"Not at all?"

"Not at all!"

"Oh, you are joking?"

"No, I am not joking, mademoiselle! I do not possess a dress-coat."
And then he added with a smile which was quite pathetic: "And there
are plenty of poor wretches like I am who are in the same
predicament!"

"Oh!" said Bijou, taking the tutor's hand with an abrupt movement, "do
forgive me--how horrid and thoughtless I am! You will detest me, shall
you not?"

She pressed his hand slowly in a way which sent a thrill through him.

"Detest you?" he stammered out, almost beside himself with joy. "I
adore you!--I simply adore you!"

Bijou gazed at him in a startled way, but there was a tender
expression in her eyes, which were dimmed with tears. Her voice was
quite changed when she spoke again:

"Go away now!" she said, "and do not say that again; you must never,
never say it again!"

When he reached the door he turned round, and saw that Bijou had
thrown herself down on the divan, and was sobbing, with her face
buried in the cushions. He wanted to go back to her, but he did not
dare, and, without saying another word, he left the room.




IV.


BIJOU, who, as a rule, was to be seen every morning trotting about,
either in the house or the park, did not appear until after the first
luncheon-bell.

Pierrot, who had been quite uneasy, rushed across to meet her, and
assailed her with questions before she had had time to say
good-morning to the marchioness and to her Uncle Alexis.

He wanted to know why he had not seen her as usual in the dairy, where
she always went every morning to inspect the cheeses. Why had she not
been there, as she had not been out riding?

"How do you know that I have not been out riding?" asked Bijou.

"Because Patatras was in the stable," replied Pierrot. "I went to
see."

"Oh, then you keep a watch on me?" she said, laughing.

"That is not keeping a watch on you," answered Pierrot, turning red;
"and then, too, it isn't only me! we were both of us--M. Giraud--"

"What grammar--good heavens--what grammar!" exclaimed M. de Jonzac, in
despair.

"What's it matter? If there was anyone here, I'd take care to put the
style on; but when there's only us!" And then turning to Bijou, he
continued: "It's quite true, you know! M. Giraud was just as much
surprised as I. He kept on saying all the time: 'We always see
mademoiselle every day hurrying about everywhere, she must be ill!'
And then I'd say, 'Oh, no! it can't be that! the Bijou is never ill!'
You see, Monsieur Giraud, I was quite right--"

"No, you were wrong! I was not exactly ill, but tired, out of sorts. I
am only just up."

She walked across to the tutor, who was leaning so heavily against the
window-frame that it seemed as though he wanted to hollow out a niche
for himself with his back.

"I want to thank you, Monsieur Giraud," said Bijou, holding out her
hand to him, "for being so kind as to think about me."

Very pale, and visibly embarrassed, the young man scarcely dared touch
the soft little hand lying so confidingly in his; he looked very
delighted, though, at being treated with such cordiality, as it was
more than he had ever expected again.

"Mademoiselle," he stammered out, seized with a vague desire either
to run away or else to give way to his emotion, "please do not believe
that I should have taken the liberty of making all those remarks."

"Oh, well, it would not have mattered; there is plenty of liberty
allowed with _the Bijou_, as Pierrot would say." And then suddenly
looking very thoughtful and absorbed, she asked: "Have they been
working at the play this morning?"

"Working?" exclaimed Pierrot, with an air of surprise; "working
without you there? Oh, by jingo, no: it's quite enough to peg away at
it when you are with us, without going at it while you are away. Oh,
no! it would be too bad--that would! We had a dose of it last
night--the precious play--and I, more particularly, because I am
obliged to work at other things."

Bijou laughed heartily. "Are you not afraid of tiring yourself with
working so hard as all that?"

"If he continues at the rate he is going," said M. de Jonzac, "he will
never take his degree, will he, Monsieur Giraud?"

"I am afraid not, monsieur, I am very much afraid not," replied the
tutor gently. "Pierrot is very intelligent, but so thoughtless, and so
absent-minded always, especially since our arrival here!"

"Oh! not any more than you are, at any rate, Monsieur Giraud,"
retorted Pierrot. "It's quite true! I don't know what's the matter
with you, but your thoughts are always wool-gathering, and you don't
go in for books as you did before. Why, even _maths_ you don't seem so
mad on--you don't do anything now except look after me, and go off
writing poetry."

"You write poetry, Monsieur Giraud?" asked Madame de Rueille, entering
the room, followed by Jean and Henry.

"Oh, madame," stuttered the poor fellow, not knowing where to put
himself nor what to say, "I write some sort, but it is--not exactly
poetry."

"You write charming poetry!" said Jean, and then, as the young tutor
looked at him in astonishment, he continued: "Yes, you write very good
poetry--and then you lose it; little Marcel has just picked up these
verses and brought them to me."

He smiled as he held out to Giraud a folded paper, the writing on
which was invisible.

"Let me see them!" said Bijou, holding out her hand.

"Oh, mademoiselle!" cried the tutor, stepping forward, terrified,
"please do not insist!" And then in order to explain his own
agitation, he added: "They are wretched verses; please let me put
them out of sight. I will show you some others which are more worth
looking at."

Bijou's hand was still held out, and she stood there waiting, looking
very frank and innocent.

"Oh, please, Jean, let me see these all the same; that need not
prevent M. Giraud writing some more that we can see, too."

"I cannot show you a letter," replied Jean, handing the paper to the
distracted tutor, "and this is a kind of letter, and belongs to the
person who wrote it."

"Thank you," stammered out Giraud, thoroughly abashed, "I am much
obliged, monsieur." And he at once put the troublesome scrap of paper
into his pocket out of sight.

"Pierrot!" called out the marchioness, "give me 'La Bruyere'--you know
where it is?"

"What's that?" asked the youth, winking.

"'La Bruyere'?"

"You see," remarked M. de Jonzac, looking at his son with an
expression of despair on his face, "he does not even know who 'La
Bruyere' is!"

Pierrot protested energetically. "Yes, I do know who he is, and the
proof is, I can tell you--it's a blue-back."

"A what?" asked the marchioness.

"A blue-back, aunt."

"Explain to your aunt," interposed M. Giraud, "that you have a most
objectionable mania for speaking of books by the colour of the binding
rather than by their title."

"By George!" exclaimed M. de Jonzac, annoyed, "he never by any chance
opens one. He is an absolute ignoramus; just to think that he will
soon be seventeen!"

"Poor Pierrot," said Bijou compassionately, "he is not as ignorant as
all that!" And then, as her uncle did not answer, she added: "And
then, too, he is ever so nice, and he is so strong and well."

"Oh, as to that," said M. de Jonzac, "his health is perfect, and that
just makes him all the more insufferable, but not any more intelligent
though. Everyone complains about the overtaxing of the intellectual
faculties; they say that it is the ruin of children; and so, by way of
improvement, they go in now for overtaxing them physically, which is a
more certain ruin still."

"Ah, uncle is waging war now," put in Bertrade; "but I am of his
opinion, too, for I do not like to think that some day my children
will add to the number of the young ruffians we see around us."

"But," objected Henry de Bracieux, "many of them--and some quite
young, too--are very intellectual; I know some."

"I, too, know some," said Jean de Blaye; "but, to my way of thinking,
they are not precisely intellectual, they are--"

Just at this moment a bell was rung in the hall.

"We must go to luncheon, children," said the marchioness, rising,
"Jean will finish his little definition for us at table."

"Oh, I am not particularly keen about it, aunt," said Jean, laughing.

"I am, though; I am no longer 'in the know' of things, as you say, and
I don't object to be instructed about certain matters on which I am
absolutely ignorant."

On taking her seat at table, the marchioness, addressing Jean,
continued:

"You were saying that the young men who were not precisely the
intellectual ones were--"

"Oh, I am not good at explanations," he replied.

"That does not matter; go on, anyhow."

"Well, those who are not really intellectual are of the sickly kind;
they act that sort of thing to begin with, and then they end by
getting like it in reality; they are intolerably affected,
effeminate, crazy, and everything else beside. They set up for being
original, and not like anyone else."

"Well, and what do you call them?"

"I don't exactly know; they are of the complex kind. There's young La
Balue, for instance, he's a perfect example for you of this class; you
might study him."

"That's an idea that has never entered my head; but, in the young
generation of to-day, there are others beside these complex ones."

"Yes, they are the athletes."

"Specimen, Pierrot!"--remarked Henry de Bracieux.

The marchioness turned towards her grandson.

"Don't be personal," she said. "Continue your little speech, Jean."

"I would rather eat my egg in peace, aunt!"

"We had got as far as the athletes--"

"Well, then, if the complex young men of to-day are a trifle
sickening, the athletes are the greatest nuisances under the sun.
Boxing, football, bicycles, matches, and records--all that, they
consider of the most tremendous and vital importance, not only in
their conversation, but, what is more regrettable still, in their
lives. In their opinion, a man of worth is the one who can give the
hardest blows, or who is endowed with the greatest strength or
vigour; all their admiration is bestowed on one single being in the
world--_the Champion_, with a capital C."

"And what is there between the complex young man and the athletes?"

"Nothing; or, at least, some exceptions so rare that they are there
simply to confirm the rule. Of course, I am only talking now of the
young generation, of the latest--Pierrot's, in fact."

"Do leave poor Pierrot in peace!" said Bijou; "you all find fault with
him."

"Because it is not too late yet for him to put his young self to
rights, and if he were to be let alone, he would soon degenerate in
the most deplorable manner."

"Jean is right," agreed M. de Jonzac; "he can very well afford to give
advice to Pierrot, and even to the others, for he is himself highly
intellectual and very good at sports."

Madame de Bracieux looked at her nephew with a benevolent expression
in her eyes:

"Your uncle is right, my dear boy, you are the greatest success of the
family," she said, and then seeing that Bijou appeared to be examining
her cousin curiously, she added: "I am only speaking of the men, of
course."

Pierrot leaned over towards Denyse, who was seated next him, and
said, in an undertone with deep gratitude, "It's awfully good of you
to stick up for me always, and I can't tell you how fond I am of
you--more than any of the others."

She answered with a smile; and in an almost maternal way, said:

"That's very wrong! You ought to be much fonder of uncle, and of
grandmamma, too, than you are of me."

"Oh, well, to begin with, there's no rule for that, and then, too, I
didn't mean that at all. I meant that I am fonder of you than all the
others are; and, you know, there's some of them very fond of you;
there's Paul, for instance, Paul de Rueille--I'm sure he likes you
better than he does Bertrade, or his children, better than
anyone--even God!"

"Do be quiet!" said Bijou, alarmed, and looking round to see if anyone
had heard.

"Don't be in a fright! They are all busy worrying each other; they are
not troubling about us. It's quite true what I said, you know; and
then Jean, too, and Henry, and Monsieur Giraud! There's scarcely
anyone, except Abbe Courteil, who does not follow you about to every
corner you go; and then--"

"You are talking rubbish! how can you imagine--"

"I don't imagine it--I see it!--and I see it, because it annoys me!"

Just at this moment M. de Jonzac's voice was heard.

"Oh, no!" he was saying, "I am convinced that he has no idea that
Renan ever existed. He does not know a thing--not a single thing."

"Oh, yes," put in the tutor, in his usual gentle and conciliatory way,
"as regards Renan, I am sure that he knows. Only three or four days
ago I had occasion to quote him as the author of the 'Origin of
Language.'"

"Well, I would wager that he does not even remember his
name--Pierrot!" called out M. de Jonzac.

The poor lad, entirely absorbed in his conversation with Bijou, had no
idea that he was being discussed. On hearing his name called, he
turned his head towards his father, vaguely uneasy.

"Pierrot," asked M. de Jonzac, "who was Renan?"

"Ah! that's it, is it," said Pierrot to Bijou, "now they're beginning
the examination again. Renan--who in the world was he now?"

"You do not know who Renan was, do you?" asked M. de Jonzac blandly.

"No, father, I don't," replied the boy.

"What?" exclaimed Giraud, surprised; "why, only the other day we were
talking about him."

"About him?" repeated Pierrot, quite astounded, "do you mean to say
that I was talking about the man?"

"Why, yes--come now; try to remember--I mentioned one of his works."

Bijou, who had just before only been listening with one ear to what
Pierrot had been telling her, so that with the other she could keep up
with the general conversation, remembered the title that had been
quoted. She was looking at her plate, apparently taken up with the
strawberries, which she was rolling about in the sugar. "The 'Origin
of Language,'" she whispered very quietly.

"Come now, have a good try," repeated the tutor. "I mentioned one of
M. Renan's books to you--which one?"

"'The Language of Flowers,'" answered Pierrot resolutely.

"That's right!" exclaimed Bertrade, delighted: "we can always reckon
on something lively from Pierrot."

M. de Jonzac, in spite of his inclination to laugh, put on a rigid
expression. "I do not see anything amusing in it."

"_You_ don't laugh, at any rate," said Pierrot, turning to Bijou and
blushing furiously. "It is awfully good of you," he added.

After dinner, he drew her out on to the stone steps, and said, in a
beseeching tone:

"Let me come out with you to take the green stuff to Patatras."

"But I must go and pour out the coffee first."

"Oh, just for once; Bertrade can pour it out right enough. Come, now,
I don't want to go into the drawing-room; they'd begin asking me
something else."

Denyse started off with him, taking from a shed the basket in which
was prepared for her every day the bunch of clover she always took to
her horse. She then went on in the direction of the stable, followed
by Pierrot.

"You are awfully nice, Bijou, and so pretty, if you only knew it," he
kept repeating, making his rough voice almost gentle.

As they crossed the path which led to the stable, they saw M. de
Rueille and Jean de Blaye advancing towards them, deep in
conversation.

"Look!" said Pierrot, "as you weren't in the drawing-room our two
cousins made themselves scarce there."

Denyse was going forward to meet them, but he stopped her abruptly.

"No, please don't, they'd stick to us all the time, and I shouldn't
have you to myself at all. It's such a piece of luck for me to be with
you for a minute without Monsieur Giraud; he's always at my heels,
especially when I'm anywhere near you."

Bijou was looking attentively at the two men, who were coming towards
her, but who were so deeply absorbed that they had not seen her, and
between her somewhat heavy eyelids appeared that little gleam which
gave at times a singular intensity of expression to her usually
soft-looking eyes.

"Very well," she answered, entering the stable, "let us take Patatras
his clover without them."

M. de Rueille was walking along with his eyes fixed on the gravel of
the garden-path. He looked up on hearing the door open. Jean de Blaye
pointed to the stable.

"Look here," he said, "_that's_ the cause of all the trouble and worry
that I can detect in every single word you say; and it's the cause,
too, of the sort of petty spite that you have against me."

"Indeed!" replied Rueille, putting on a joking air; "and what is
_that_ pray?"

"Why, Bijou, of course. Oh, you need not try to deny it. Do you think
I have not followed up, hour by hour, all that has been passing in
your mind?"

"It must have been interesting."

"Don't humbug; you are scarcely inclined for that sort of thing just
now. I saw very well just when you began to admire Bijou, quite
unconsciously, more than one does admire, as a rule, a little cousin
one is fond of. It was the evening of the _Grand Prix_ at Uncle
Alexis' when she sang--why don't you speak?"

"I am listening to you--go on."

"When we were all here together at Bracieux, never absent from each
other, and you had spent every minute of the long day in Bijou's
society, your--let us call it--your admiration increased, of course,
and ever since yesterday, ever since your expedition to
Pont-sur-Loire, it has been at the acute stage. Am I right?"

"Well, yes: you are right."

"I am not surprised; but will you explain one thing--one thing which
_does_ surprise me?"

"What is it?"

"Why do you appear to have a special grudge against me? Why against me
rather than against your brother-in-law, or young La Balue, or
Pierrot's tutor, or even Pierrot himself?"

"Well, Henry is nearly Bijou's own age; he was brought up with her,
and she looks upon him as a brother exactly. Young La Balue is a
regular caricature; the tutor, a poor wretch who does not count; and
Pierrot, a lad; whilst you--"

"Whilst I?"

"Well, as to you, why, you are the sort that women like, and you know
that very well; and I can see and feel, and, in short, I know, it is
you whom Bijou will care for."

"Me? nonsense! she does not deign to pay the very slightest attention
to me. I am nothing in her eyes except the man who is breaking in a
horse for her, who takes her out boating, or who composes couplets for
her play."

"In short, you exist more than the others do, anyhow."

"But why? It's your fancy to look upon young La Balue as a caricature;
but everyone is not of your opinion. As to Giraud--well, he is a very
good sort."

"Yes, but he is Giraud."

"Well, what of that? what difference does that make?"

"A good deal; that is, it would be nothing with certain women, but it
is everything with others,--and Bijou is one of these others."

"Oh--what do you know about it?"

"I have studied her for some time without appearing to."

"You are studying her, but you do not know her."

"Perhaps not!"

"If I were in her place I know which one I should choose amongst so
many lovers."

"Ah! they sing that in _Les Noces de Jeannette_."

"Oh! you won't stop me like that! Amongst so many lovers, if I had to
choose, it would certainly be Giraud that I should prefer."

"An older woman might admire Giraud, because he is handsome--but not a
young girl! You see a young girl's one idea is marriage----"

"Then, you have no grudge against Giraud, because, according to you,
he is not marriageable, consequently, not to be feared."

"Precisely!"

"Very well, then, and what about me, my dear fellow? Do you think I am
marriageable, then? Can you imagine me with my wretched fifteen
hundred a year endeavouring to make Bijou happy? Yes, can you just
imagine it now?--a house at a hundred a year or so--petroleum lamps,
coke fires, etc.--that _would_ be delicious."

"And yet you are in love with her?"

"Excuse me, I did not say that I was in love with Bijou. I don't
really know; all I can say is, that she has taken my fancy
tremendously, and that, as I simply cannot marry her, I am wretchedly
unhappy."

"And you don't think she cares for you?"

"Not the least bit in the world! She has never tried even to deceive
me on that point. 'Good-morning! Good-night! What a fine day it
is.'--that's the sort of palpitating dialogue which goes on every day
between us. You see, therefore, that you have no reason to have a
spite against me?"

"I beg your pardon, Jean, my dear fellow, but I firmly believed that
you were the great favourite."

M. de Rueille broke off suddenly, and appeared to be straining his
ears.

"Ah!" he said, "there she is!"

Bijou was just coming out of the stable, followed, of course, by
Pierrot.

She tripped daintily across towards the two men, examining them in her
calm, smiling way.

"Whatever's the matter with you both?" she asked; "you look--I don't
know how!"




V.


BIJOU was in the dining-room, arranging the flowers on the table for
dinner, whilst in the butler's pantry the servants were polishing up
the large silver dishes until they shone brilliantly.

"Get into your coat!" said the butler to the footman; "there's a
carriage coming slowly up the avenue. Oh, you've got plenty of time,
it isn't here yet."

"Whose carriage is it?" said the footman, looking through the window.

"I don't know it; it's a fine-looking turn-out, anyhow. It might very
well be the owner of The Noriniere."

"My goodness! it's a clinking turn-out."

"Oh, he can afford it."

"He's got some money, then?"

"Why, yes, an awful lot; he's got about sixteen thousand a year."

"Do you know him, then?"

"My wife was kitchen-maid at his place before I married her--a good
master he is, always pleasant, and not at all near--you'd better
start now if you want to get to the steps before he's there."

A minute before, Bijou, finding that she was short of flowers, had run
out into the garden, and, springing across the path, had pushed her
way into the middle of a rose-bed, and was now cutting away
mercilessly. She was so absorbed that she did not hear the carriage,
which was coming up the drive, and which went round the lawn, and
pulled up in front of the stone steps. When at last she did happen to
look up, she saw, a few steps away from her, a tall gentleman standing
gazing at her with a most rapturous expression.

The fact was that Bijou, in her cotton dress, with wide pink stripes,
and her little apron trimmed with Valenciennes, was really very pretty
to look at, foraging about amongst the flowers.

When she discovered that she was being gazed at in this way, her
tea-rose complexion took a deeper tint, and she looked confused and
embarrassed, as she stood there facing the gentleman, who was still
contemplating her without saying a word.

He was a man of between fifty-five and sixty, tall, slender,
distinguished-looking, and elegant, and with a very young-looking
figure for his years. His face, which was intelligent and refined,
had also an almost youthful expression about it, just tinged with a
shade of melancholy. As Bijou remained where she was, and appeared to
be hesitating and not quite at her ease, the visitor approached, and,
raising his hat, said in a very gentle voice:

"Excuse me, mademoiselle, but are you not Denyse de Courtaix?"

Bijou, with her frank, honest expression, looked straight into the
eyes fixed so curiously upon her, and answered, smiling:

"Yes, and you?--you are Monsieur de Clagny, are you not?"

"How did you know?"

Denyse sprang out of the rose-bed on to the garden-path, and then,
without answering the question in a direct way, she said, with the
most trusting, happy look in her eyes:

"Oh! how glad grandmamma will be to see you, and Uncle Alexis, too;
ever since they heard that you were coming back to live here, they
have talked of nothing else. Let's go at once to find grandmamma."

She started off, leading the way, looking most graceful and supple, as
she passed through the large rooms with that gliding movement which
was one of her greatest charms.

The marchioness was not in the room where she was usually to be found.
Bijou rang the bell, and requested the servant to find Madame de
Bracieux. She then took a seat opposite M. de Clagny, and examined him
attentively.

"Paul de Rueille was quite right after all," she said, "when he told
me that I had seen you long ago--I recognise you." She gazed with her
bright eyes more fixedly into the count's, and repeated pensively: "I
certainly do recognise you."

"Well, I confess, in all sincerity," said M. de Clagny, "that if I had
met you anywhere else than at Bracieux, I should not have recognised
_you_--you are so much bigger, you know, and then, so much more
beautiful that, with the exception of the lovely violet eyes, which
have not changed, there is nothing remaining of the little baby-girl
of years ago."

"The name which you gave me still remains."

"The name? what name?" he asked, in surprise.

"Bijou! don't you remember? it seems that it was you who used to call
me that."

"Yes, that's true! you seemed to me such a fragile little thing, so
adorable and so rare--a bijou in fact, an exquisite little bijou. And
so they have continued to call you by that name--it suits you, too,
wonderfully well."

"I don't think so! I am afraid it is rather ridiculous to be still
_Bijou_ at the age of twenty-one, for, you know, I am twenty-one now."

"Is it possible?"

"Very possible! in four years from now I shall be quite an old maid!"

The count looked at Bijou with an admiration which he did not attempt
to dissimulate, as he answered emphatically:

"_You_ an old maid? oh, never in the world, never!"

Madame de Bracieux was just entering the room.

"How glad I am to see you!" she said, looking delighted, and holding
out her hands to her visitor.

As Denyse was moving towards the door, the marchioness called her
back.

"I see Bijou has introduced herself," she said to Clagny, who had not
yet got over his admiration, "What do you think of my grand-daughter?"
And then, without giving him time to answer, she went on quickly:
"It's just the same _Bijou_ you used to admire years ago, just the
same! the genuine _Bijou_, there's no _sham_ about it, as my grandsons
would say."

"Mademoiselle Denyse is charming."

"Denyse (and, by the way, you will oblige me by not calling her
mademoiselle) is a dear, good girl, obedient and devoted. Her gaiety
has brightened up my old house, which was gloomy enough before her
arrival."

"How is it that I have never seen Mademoiselle Denyse----"

"Mademoiselle again!"

"That I have never seen Bijou in Paris? I come so regularly on your
day."

"Yes, but you always come very early, at an hour when she is never
there, and then for the last sixteen years you have never dined with
us."

"I never dine out anywhere, you know; but you have never spoken of
Bijou, never told me anything about her."

"Because you have never asked me about her."

"I had forgotten about her, to tell the truth, the tiny, baby-child
that I saw so little of, and yet just now, when I saw a delicious girl
emerging from a rose-bed, I hadn't the slightest hesitation, had I,
mademoiselle?" and then correcting himself, he added, laughing: "had
I, Bijou?"

"Yes, that's true! M. de Clagny asked me at once if I were not Denyse
de Courtaix----and I, too, knew at once who he was; I had heard so
much about him that I seemed to know him in my imagination, and, it's
very odd--" She broke off suddenly, and then after gazing thoughtfully
at the count, she added: "I knew him in my imagination just as he is
in reality."

"A very old man," said Clagny, with a kind of sad playfulness.

"No!" replied Bijou, evidently sincere, "a very handsome man!" And
then abruptly breaking off, she said: "And Uncle Alexis has not
appeared yet; they have rung the bell with all their might in vain,
for he doesn't come; I'll go and find him!"

She was hurrying away when the marchioness called her back:

"Stop a minute!--have another place laid at table. You will dine with
us, Clagny?"

"Yes, if you have no one here."

"Oh, but I have; I am just expecting some friends of yours."

"And I am a regular bear, for I do not even dine with my friends; and
then, too, in this get-up--"

"Your get-up is all right, and, besides, there is time to send to The
Noriniere for your coat if you particularly care to have it."

"I do care to, if I stay."

Bijou approached, and said, in a coaxing way:

"You will stay--and do you know what would be very, very nice of you?
well, it would be to stay just as you are, without your dress-coat."

"Why do you insist, Bijou, if it annoys him to stay without dressing?"
asked the marchioness.

"Because, grandmamma, if M. de Clagny were to dine without his
dress-coat, M. Giraud could, too; and otherwise he will have to dine
all by himself in his room."

"What are you talking about, child?"

"Why, it's very simple. M. Giraud has no dress-coat; he hasn't one at
all. I got to know it by chance; he told Baptiste just now that he was
not very well, and that he should not leave his room this evening, and
so, if M. de Clagny would stay just as he is, don't you see, he could,
too--M. Giraud, I mean."

"What a good little Bijou you are!" said the marchioness, quite
touched; "you think of everyone; you do nothing but find ways of
giving pleasure to all."

Denyse was not listening to this. She was waiting for the count to
give his consent.

"Would it be a great, great pleasure to you," he asked at length, "if
this Monsieur Giraud could dine at table?"

"Yes."

"Then it shall be as you wish. Tell me, though, now, who is this
gentleman with whom I am not acquainted, and for whose sake I am
consenting to appear as a most ill-bred man?"

"He is Pierrot's coach."

"Ah! and what's this Pierrot?"

"The son of Alexis," said Madame de Bracieux laughing.

"Then the god to whom I am to be sacrificed is M. Giraud, tutor to
Pierrot de Jonzac, and he is honoured by the patronage of Mademoiselle
Denyse. Thank you, I like to know how things are."

"But," protested Denyse, turning very red, "I do not patronise M.
Giraud at all. I----"

"Oh, do not attempt to defend yourself. I know what kind of a role a
poor tutor without a dress-coat must play in the life of a beautiful
young lady like you; it is just a role of no account; he represents as
exactly as possible _a gentleman of no importance_ in a play."

"You have no idea," said the marchioness, when Denyse had gone away,
"how good that child is. This young man in whom she is interested, and
who, by the bye, is really charming, is always treated by her exactly
on the same footing as the most influential and the most
distinguished men she meets. Oh, she is a pearl, is Bijou; you will
see!"

"I shall see it perhaps too clearly."

"How do you mean--too clearly?"

"I am very susceptible, you know. I have a foolish old heart, which
sounds an alarm at the slightest danger, and which afterwards I cannot
silence again."

"But Bijou is my grand-daughter, my poor old friend."

"Well, what difference does that make?"

"Why, just this--that she might be yours."

"I know all that well enough. Good heavens!--that is what you might
call reasoning; and hearts that remain young either reason very little
or very badly."

"And so?"

"Oh," said M. de Clagny, making an effort to laugh, "I was joking, of
course."

       *       *       *       *       *

Bijou had crossed the court-yard. The heat was very great, and the
peacocks, perched on the trunk of a tree that had been felled, looked
stupid and ridiculous, whilst the dogs, lying on their sides, with
their legs stretched out, were panting under the sun's rays, but were
too lazy to look for any shade.

No one was out of doors at that torrid hour, except Pierrot, who,
arrayed in a white linen suit, with a wide straw hat on his head, was
strolling about under the chestnut trees, which formed a V shaped
avenue.

Denyse ran up the steps, and entered the schoolroom like a gust of
wind. On the threshold, however, she stopped short, and seemed
confused. M. Giraud, who had been seated at the table, had risen
hastily on seeing her appear.

"Oh! I beg your pardon," she stammered out, "I wanted to speak to
Pierrot. I thought he was here, and that you had gone for your walk."

Very much embarrassed, the young tutor could scarcely find any words
with which to reply.

"No, mademoiselle, no! I am here you see. It is just the contrary, for
Pierrot has gone out, but, if you like, if I could tell him
what--for--you have something to say to him probably?"

He lost his head completely as he looked at her standing there. She
was so pretty with her complexion, still pink and white, in spite of
the terrible heat, and her large eyes, with their changing expression,
were fixed on him with such a gentle look.

"Yes, certainly," she said, slightly embarrassed too, "I wanted to
speak to Pierrot; although it is about something that concerns
you--it would be better----"

"Something which concerns me?" interrupted Giraud, looking uneasy;
"but I do not know really--I wonder what----"

The thought flashed across him that she was perhaps going to say that,
after what had taken place the night before last, he could not remain
any longer at Bracieux. He was in despair, for not only would he have
to leave Bijou, but he would probably get no employment for the next
two months, just as he had thought to have a little peace and comfort.

The young girl was looking at him, and smiling kindly.

"You see, it is very difficult to say it to--to the person concerned,"
she answered at length.

"Well, but--Pierrot."

"Oh! Pierrot is not a very clever diplomatist, I grant, but he would
have known better than I do how to go about things in order to
announce to you----"

"To announce to me?"

"The fact that you are going to dine with us this evening. A headache,
you know, is a very good excuse for women, but only for women."

"But, mademoiselle, without taking into account the annoyance it
would be to me (and it would annoy me very much) not to be dressed as
the others are, it would not be polite towards your guests."

"Yes, you are perhaps right; it would not be the thing, perhaps, if
you were the only one who was not in evening dress; but there will be
M. de Clagny just as he is now, to pay a call; so you understand."

"Mademoiselle, I caught sight of M. de Clagny just now when he
arrived. He is an old gentleman, and as such can take liberties about
certain matters which I, particularly in my position, could not."

"As to you, you are just going to obey grandmamma like a good little
boy, for it was grandmamma who sent me, you know."

"Ah!" murmured the young man, disappointed, "it was your grandmamma? I
was hoping it was you, who--but you are still vexed with me, of
course?"

"Vexed with you?" she asked, surprised; "what for?"

"Well--because--oh, you know--the other evening--when, in spite of
myself, I----"

Bijou's merry face clouded over as she said very seriously:

"I thought that would never be brought up again. I wish you to forget
what you said to me." She stood still a moment, with a pensive look on
her beautiful face, and then she added, in a muffled voice: "And,
above all, I wish to forget it myself."

Her eyelids were lowered, and her eyelashes were beating quickly
against her pink cheeks throwing a strange shadow over her brilliant
complexion.

Giraud went up to her, anxious and excited, and in a stammering voice
he asked:

"Is it true what you have just said? Do you still remember that moment
of madness? Can you think of it without anger?"

"Yes," she answered, gazing full at him with her beautiful blue eyes,
"I think of it without anger," and then, in such a low voice that he
could scarcely hear it, she murmured, "and I _do_ think of it all the
time!" Then, with a sudden change of expression, she began again
hurriedly: "It is you who must forget now; you must forget at
once--what I ought never to have said to you! Please forget it! Do as
I ask you, for my sake!"

"Forget? How do you think that I can forget? You know well enough that
it is absolutely impossible!"

"You must, though!" she persisted. "Yes, you must say to yourself
that you--that we have had a dream--a very bright, happy dream,--one
of those sort from which one wakes up happy, and, at the same time,
troubled; a dream in which one has a vision of beautiful things, which
disappear, and which we cannot possibly define. Have you never had
such dreams? One cannot, no matter how much one tries, remember all
about them; and yet--one likes them."

Her voice, with its caressing intonation, completely unnerved the
young man. He had taken his seat again mechanically at the table, and,
without replying, he looked up at Bijou, his eyes full of tears.

She came nearer, and said in a beseeching tone:

"Ah! please don't, if you only knew how wretched it makes me--" and
then she added abruptly: "and if it is any consolation to you--you can
say to yourself that you are not the only one to suffer--for I do,
too."

"Is it really, really true?" he asked, bewildered with his happiness.

Denyse did not answer. She had just noticed on the table a letter,
which Giraud had been finishing when she entered the room.

"I was writing to my brother," he said, following the direction of her
eyes, "and instead of telling him about my pupil, and my occupations,
and, in short, about such things as, in my position of life, I ought
to confine myself to, I have only told him about you."

"I was looking at your name," she answered, pointing with her rosy
finger to the signature; "Fred--it is a name I am fond of; I gave it
to my little godchild, the youngest of Bertrade's children." She
seemed to be looking far away through the open window as she repeated
very gently: "Fred!" And then passing her little hand over her
forehead, and walking towards the door, she said abruptly: "And this
dinner--and my flowers for the table,--why, the _menus_ are not
written yet, and it is five o'clock!" And then, as the poor fellow
looked stupefied and did not attempt to move, she went on: "It's
settled about this evening, is it not? I shall have your place laid?"

He answered, in a vague, bewildered way, coming gradually to himself
again:

"Amongst all the others in dress-coats, I shall cut the most
ridiculous figure."

"Oh, no,--nothing of the kind! Besides, they will not all be in
dress-coats. First of all, there is M. de Clagny in a frock-coat; and
then M. de Bernes, who is afraid of meeting his General, and so is
always arrayed in his uniform: then the abbe in his cassock," and
with a laugh she concluded: "That makes three of them who will not be
in dress-coats!"

       *       *       *       *       *

As she was leaving the schoolroom, she ran against Henry de Bracieux,
who was coming towards her in the corridor.

"Well, I never!" he exclaimed, in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"And you?"

"I? Why, I was going back to my room."

"And I was coming away from Pierrot's."

"Pierrot is in the garden."

"I did not know, and I had something to say to him."

"To him?" asked the young man suspiciously, and almost aggressively,
"or to M. Giraud?"

Without appearing to notice her cousin's singular attitude towards
her, she answered, in a docile way:

"To him, so that he might repeat it to M. Giraud, but as he was not
there----"

"It is to Giraud that you have----"

"Given grandmamma's message. Yes," and then, with an innocent
expression in her eyes, she asked: "Why does it interest you so much
to know whether I gave this message to the one rather than to the
other?"

He replied, in a joking tone, but with some embarrassment:

"Because I am inquisitive, probably; and the proof that I am
inquisitive is that I should like to know what this message was."

"Grandmamma commissioned me to tell M. Giraud, who has no
dress-coat----"

"No dress-coat--Giraud?"

"No."

"Not a dress-coat at all?"

"There, you say just what I did. No, not a dress-coat of any
description! He had sent word that he would not dine with us; and
then, as M. de Clagny is staying to dinner, and he is in a frock-coat,
I was going to tell Pierrot, so that he could let M. Giraud know. Do
you understand now?"

"Yes," replied Henry, "quite well--but Jean is very _chic_ and never
goes about without a change of dress-coats; he has, at least, three
here; he would certainly lend him one--they are exactly the same
figure."

"That would be nice!"

"Oh, he would be glad to do it! Giraud is a very nice fellow; we
should all like him, if----"

He stopped short, and Bijou asked:

"If what?"

"Oh, nothing! I'll go and see about this business--at old Clagny's
time of life it doesn't matter whether one is got up all right or not;
but for Giraud, it's another thing. I am sure he would feel it very
much if he thought he looked ridiculous, especially----"

"Especially?"

"Especially before you!"

Bijou shrugged her shoulders, and ran away down the long corridor.




VI.


ALTHOUGH Bijou had superintended the laying of the cloth, and had
herself attended to the flowers, the service, and the _menus_, she was
ready for dinner before anyone else.

Carrying in her arms an enormous bunch of roses, she entered the
drawing-room just as the marchioness had gone upstairs to dress.

She was so much taken up with arranging her flowers on a side-table
that she did not see M. de Clagny, who was watching her attentively as
she came and went, with the pretty, graceful movements of a bird as it
flies backwards and forwards before finally perching itself.

At length, however, he spoke, and the sound of his voice made Denyse
start.

"It's very certain that it came direct from Paris--that pretty dress,"
he said.

"Oh!" exclaimed Bijou, scared, "you nearly frightened me." And then,
going up to the count, and daintily patting her light, gauzy dress,
she continued: "That pretty dress did not come from Paris; it was made
at Bracieux, near Pont-sur-Loire."

Thoroughly astonished, the count asked:

"Oh, no! by whom, then?"

"By Denyse, here present, and by an old sewing-woman, who is a dresser
at the theatre."

He had risen, and was now walking round the young girl in almost timid
admiration. She was so pretty, emerging from the pinky-looking cloud,
which seemed to scarcely touch her dainty little figure, and out of
which peeped her shoulders, tinted, too, with that singular pinky
gleam which made her delicate skin look so velvety and soft.

M. de Clagny could not help thinking that Bijou was not only beautiful
to look at, but fascinating in the extreme, with her tempting mouth,
and her innocent, frank eyes. The charm of her person was rendered all
the more complex by this same child-like expression.

Whilst he was examining her curiously, Bijou was saying to herself
that "this old friend of grandmamma's" was much younger-looking than
she had imagined him to be. He certainly did make a good appearance,
tall and slender, with his hair quite white on his temples, whilst his
fair moustache had scarcely a touch of grey. His brown eyes had a
gentle expression, and his mouth, sometimes mocking, and at times even
almost cruel, showed, when he smiled, the sharp, white teeth, which
lighted up his whole face in a singular way.

The silence was getting embarrassing, until Bijou at last broke it:

"Grandmamma has not come down then yet? I expected to find her here."

"She went away to dress just as you came in."

"She will never be ready."

M. de Clagny looked at his watch.

"But dinner is to be at eight--she has plenty of time; it is not
half-past seven."

"Oh!" exclaimed Bijou regretfully. "If only I had known, I should not
have hurried so much. I was so afraid of being late."

"I'm the one to be glad that you hurried so much. I shall have you to
talk to for a minute"--

"For a good half-hour at least," she said, laughing; "no one is ever
in advance here--oh, never, not even the guests any more than the
people of the house."

"Ah, about the guests, tell me with whom I am going to dine. Your
grandmamma said, 'You will dine with some friends of yours.' Now, as
to friends, I cannot have many here now, considering that for the
last twelve years I have not been in this part of the world. There
have probably been many changes since then."

"Not so many as all that; let's see, now! you will dine with the
Tourvilles."

"The Tourvilles? they are not dead yet?"

"Those with whom you are going to dine are living. They had some
parents who are dead."

"Ah! that's it, is it! then young Tourville is married?"

"Yes, two years ago!"

"He was a disagreeable fellow! Has he made a good marriage?"

"That depends! he married a young lady on the Stock Exchange."

"What do you mean? a young lady on the Stock Exchange?"

"Yes, her father is something there, I believe; he is very, very
rich."

"Is it Chaillot, the banker?"

"Perhaps so, I never asked about them--they have restored Tourville,
it is superb now; and they are always entertaining."

"Is Madame de Tourville pretty?"

"You will see her; she is very pleasant, and they say she is very
intelligent; for my part, I have not discovered that." And then, as
M. de Clagny smiled, she added quickly: "Because I only know her very
slightly."

"Well, and after the Tourvilles, who next?"

"M. de Bernes."

"Young Hubert, the dragoon?"

"He himself."

"He is the son of good friends of mine; a downright nice fellow, don't
you think so?"

"Don't I think what?"

"That Hubert de Bernes is nice?"

"Oh! I know him so slightly; he has always seemed to me--how shall I
express it?--insipid, yes, insipid."

"Because you intimidate him, probably? I can quite understand that,
too!"

"I intimidate _you_, perhaps?" she said, laughing.

"Very much so!" he answered, very seriously.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, in astonishment, "how is that possible?"

"It is very possible, and it is true! There's nothing astonishing
about it then, that if you intimidate an old man like me, you should
intimidate poor little Hubert."

"Little Hubert? he is six feet!"

"Yes, and he is twenty-six years old, but to me he is always little
Hubert. Well, anyhow, admit at least that he is handsome?"

"I don't know!"

"Are you going to tell me that you have not looked at him?"

"I have looked at him; but as regards M. de Bernes I am a very bad
judge."

"Why so?"

"Because I detest young men!"

"At the age of twenty-six they are not so young as all that!"

"That may be so! but, all the same, at that age they do not exist as
far as I am concerned."

"Well, well! and at what age do they begin to exist as far as you are
concerned?"

She laughed.

"Very late in life!" she said, and then suddenly changing her tone,
she continued: "I am glad you know M. de Bernes, because, at any rate,
you will not be bored to death now this evening."

"Ah! it appears, then, that I am not to count on the other guests for
entertainment?"

"Oh, no! the others--well, first of all there are the La Balues."

"Good heavens, they are alarming! Why, their children must be
beginning to grow up?"

"They have even finished growing up! Louis is twenty-three, and Gisele
twenty-two."

"What are they like?"

"The one sets up for being _blase_---he is never either hungry,
thirsty, or sleepy; he does not care for anything; everything bores
him. And it is not true, you know! he never misses a dance, and his
sister says that he gets up in the night to eat on the sly. Then, too,
he writes ridiculous poetry, paints pictures as absurd as his poetry,
and goes in for music--such music!"

"And the daughter?"

"She is as masculine as her brother is effeminate; she goes shooting
and hunting, and her dream is to go in for deer-stalking, and to marry
an officer."

"She is probably thinking of Hubert?"

"What Hubert?"

"Young Bernes!"

"Ah! But I don't fancy so! At all events, he is not thinking about
her--"

"Because he is too much taken up with you, like all the others; is not
that so?"

"Not at all!"

M. de Clagny shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, nonsense!" he said, "I can see it all quite plainly."

"There are only three guests left now for me to introduce to you,"
continued Bijou, evidently wishing to change the subject of the
conversation. "There are the Juzencourts--people who are very much
up-to-date, and who have bought 'The Pines'--and one of their friends
who is staying for a month with them, a delightful young widow, the
Viscountess de Nezel."

"What!" exclaimed the count, with an abrupt movement; "Madame de
Nezel--Jean de Blaye is here then?"

Denyse opened her beautiful, bright eyes wide, as she replied in
astonishment:

"Yes, Jean is here; but what has that to do with----?"

"Oh, nothing at all! nothing at all!" said M. de Clagny hastily, and
then after a moment's silence, he asked: "Is Madame de Nezel as pretty
as ever?"

"She is very pretty."

"As pretty as you?"

Bijou smiled. "Why do you make fun of me? I know very well that I am
not pretty," she said.

"It's my turn now, my dear little Bijou, to ask why you make fun of an
old friend who admires you as much as it is possible to admire anyone,
and who, alas! is not the only one."

"Why do you say alas?"

"Well, because when one admires or loves, one would like to be the
only one to admire or love; one's affection makes one selfish and
jealous."

"And after--let me see--how long--three hours--yes, after three hours'
acquaintance, you already have some affection for me?" asked Bijou,
looking quite joyful.

"Yes, a great deal!" answered M. de Clagny very seriously.

"So much the better, because, you see, I too, I like you very much!"
And, as though she were just talking to herself, she added: "I had
imagined you very different, I expected to see you not at all like you
are."

"Younger?" he asked sadly.

"Oh, no, just the opposite; they had always spoken of you as a friend
of grandpapa's, and grandmamma always said, 'my old friend Clagny,' so
that you can understand when I saw you, I was quite surprised."

"But why?"

"Because you looked to me to be--I don't know exactly--about
forty-five perhaps?--well, say like Paul de Rueille; and then, you are
very handsome, and, for my part, I like people who are handsome."

"Your cousin De Blaye is handsome!"

"Jean?" she said, as though she were turning it over in her mind, "is
he as handsome as all that? He does not strike me in that way, you
see. When people are always together they end by not noticing each
other!"

"I am quite sure that he notices you!"

"Oh, no! people don't notice me as much as you think! They care for me
because I was left alone in the world at the age of seventeen; and
then, when grandmamma took possession of me, like some poor little
stray dog, and carried me off to her home, why, they all felt
interested in me, and made me very welcome, and I was their Bijou whom
they all tried to bring up and to spoil, whose faults are always
looked over, and who always has her own way."

"And Bijou is quite right; that's the only good thing there is in
life--having one's own way, when one can."

"One always can," she said, speaking as though she were not aware that
she was saying anything, and then suddenly advancing towards the
bay-window, she exclaimed: "Ah! there, now! the Tourvilles! and
grandmamma is not down stairs again yet!"

Bijou went forward to greet the new-comers--a lady dressed very
handsomely, followed by a common-looking sort of man, with very stiff
manners, who, on the whole, was decidedly snobbish.

Bijou introduced them, "Count de Clagny, Count de Tourville," and
then, as the marchioness entered the room, looking very handsome still
in her cloudy lace draperies, the young girl turned to M. de Clagny
again.

"Well," she said, "and what do you think of the Tourvilles?"

"I don't admire them. But how much Henry de Bracieux has improved in
appearance; he is not as good-looking as his cousin yet; but that may
come, perhaps."

"As good-looking as which cousin?"

"As Blaye."

"Again. Oh, well! you will insist on this beauty of Jean's."

"Well, beauty is perhaps not just the word; but he is charming; if you
will allow me to say that?"

"I will allow it."

"By the bye, do tell me who that very nice-looking young man is whom I
met just now at the end of the avenue?"

"I do not know, unless it were Pierrot's tutor; but he is not so very
nice-looking----"

"Look, there he is," said M. de Clagny, indicating M. Giraud.

"Ah!" exclaimed Bijou, in astonishment; "yes, that is he!"

She was amazed both at the count's admiration, and at the
transformation which Jean's dress-coat had made.

Arrayed in this garment of a perfect cut, and which fitted him
wonderfully well, the young tutor looked quite at his ease.

"Well," said Henry, coming up to Denyse, "wasn't my idea a bright one?
Do you see the difference?"--and then, as she did not answer quickly
enough for his liking, he added: "I'll bet anything you don't see it;
women never can see those things when it's a question of men."

The guests were all arriving. First the La Balues, imperturbable,
absurd in the extreme, but so blissfully happy, so full of admiration,
and so perfectly satisfied with themselves that one would have been
sorry to have undeceived them. Then came Hubert de Bernes, arrayed, as
Bijou had prophesied, in his uniform, and looking all round the
drawing-room carefully afraid of meeting what he was in the habit of
calling '_any big pots_.' The Juzencourts arrived last of all, bringing
with them Madame de Nezel, a very pretty and exquisitely-dressed woman.
She was extremely refined-looking and supple, with that suppleness
peculiar to Creoles; she had a jessamine-like complexion, and heavy,
silky hair of jet black.

Bijou, who was looking at her with an expression of curiosity, as
though she had never seen her before, remarked to M. de Clagny:

"Madame de Nezel is really very pretty--isn't she?"

He replied, in an absent sort of way, devouring Bijou all the time
with his eyes:

"There is no mistaking that she comes of good family, and then, too,
she's very womanly, and would respond----"

The young girl knitted her eyebrows as though she were making an
effort to understand.

"And would what?"

"Oh, nothing," answered the count, annoyed with himself. "I don't know
what I was going to say."

"Bijou!" called out the marchioness suddenly, "Madame de Juzencourt
wants to see the children; go and fetch them. You will allow them to
come down, Bertrade? and you, too, monsieur?" she added, turning to
the abbe.

M. de Clagny looked vexed at being separated from Denyse. It seemed to
him already as though he could not do without her.

She soon came back, followed by Marcel and Robert, leading by the hand
a superb baby-child of four years old, who was smiling amiably and
confidingly as he trotted along.

"This is my godson," she said, introducing him with evident pride.
"Isn't he a pet, and so beautiful and good. He's a love!"

"Bijou is so good to that child," said Madame de Rueille, "she is
always looking after him and is teaching him now to read."

"So early!" exclaimed M. de Clagny, in a reproachful tone, "is he
being taught to read already?"

"Bijou teaches him plenty of other things, too, don't you, Bijou?"
asked the marchioness; "you are teaching him Bible history, are you
not? Two days ago he told me about Moses, and he knew it all very
well."

"Oh!" exclaimed the count jeeringly, "I should like to hear that. Poor
unfortunate little mite!"

In a graceful, winsome way, Bijou knelt down by the child. On hearing
"his story" mentioned, the poor little fellow looked at her
beseechingly.

"Now, Fred, tell it," she said.

Docile, but with a discontented expression on his face, the little
fellow looked up at his god-mother.

"Tell about Moses, you know it very well."

"Well then," began Fred resolutely, "they put him in a 'ittle basket,
'ittle Moses, and they put the basket on the Nile----"

He stopped abruptly, his face bathed in perspiration.

"And then, what happened?" asked Bijou.

"Don't know," replied the little fellow briefly; "don't know any
more--don't know, I tell you. Say it yourself--what happened."

"Nonsense! come now, have you made up your mind not to answer?"

The child replied coaxingly:

"P'ease don't make me say it!"

Denyse insisted, however.

"Oh, yes! now something happened when Moses was going down the Nile.
What was it--what happened?"

He thought for a minute, his face puckered up, his eyes shut, and
then, just when everyone had given up hoping for anything more, he
cried out, delighted at having remembered:

"Puss in boots came! and called out: 'Help! help! it's the Marquis of
Carabas--he's drowning.'"

"There, you see," said Bertrade, laughing, "this is what comes of
teaching him so many fine things at the same time."

M. de Rueille added:

"Yes, a day or two ago Denyse gave him a stunning 'Puss in Boots' that
we brought with us from Pont-sur-Loire, and this has evidently done
Moses a great deal of harm."

Bijou turned towards her cousin, and exclaimed in astonishment:

"Denyse! how long have you taken to calling me Denyse?"

"Oh, I don't know," answered Rueille, "sometimes I do."

"Why, you never do! I thought you were vexed," and then, bending
towards her godchild, and taking him up in her arms, she said,
laughing: "My poor little Fred, we have not had much success this
time, have we?"

Giraud, who was standing just behind her, gazed at her admiringly. She
clasped the child, who was smiling at her, closer still, and murmured
in a caressing tone:

"Fred! my dear Fred! I do so love you, if you only knew."

On hearing his own name pronounced so tenderly, the young tutor had
started involuntarily, and he had had the greatest difficulty in
keeping himself from advancing towards Denyse. He had turned so pale,
too, and such a strange, drawn look had come over his face, that
Pierrot, who, as a rule, was not endowed with much power of
observation except in matters relating to Bijou, noticed it, and
asked:

"What's the matter with you, Monsieur Giraud? you look so queer! are
you ill?"

Denyse turned round abruptly, and asked with interest:

"You are not well, Monsieur Giraud?"

"I? oh, yes! perfectly well, thank you, mademoiselle. I don't know
what made Pierrot fancy that."

"Oh, well!" said the youth, with conviction, "look at yourself; you
look awfully queer! Besides, for the last three or four days you have
not been yourself; you must have something the matter that you don't
know of."

"I assure you," stuttered the poor fellow, in a perfect torture, "I
assure you that there is nothing the matter with me."

M. de Clagny had approached them. He was looking enviously at little
Fred nestling against Bijou's pretty shoulder.

"Your godson is perfectly superb!" he said.

"Yes, isn't he? and he adores me!"

Dinner was announced just at this moment, and Bijou gave the child,
who was getting sleepy, to the English nurse who had come for him.

With a disagreeable expression on his face, young La Balue, who was
standing just by Denyse, offered her the sharp angle of his arm. With
some difficulty she managed to slip her hand through, and, with a
resigned look on her face, went in with him to dinner.

At table M. Giraud was at the other side of her, and half wild with
delight at finding himself placed next her, he felt that he was more
shy and awkward than ever. His timidity, which had hitherto been
extreme, seemed to increase. He dared not say a word, and he was in
despair, because he felt that he was making himself ridiculous.

He was not only in love with Denyse for her beauty, her grace, and her
wonderful charm, but he venerated her for her goodness, which seemed
to him to be infinite.

When he had been an usher in a certain college, he had one day
murmured some foolish words of affection to the daughter of the
headmaster, and he remembered still with awe the contemptuous anger
with which the young lady had reproached him for having, in his
position, dared to lift his eyes to her.

He had now frankly and bluntly told this beautiful, wealthy, and
nobly-born girl that he adored her, and, in reply, she had spoken to
him sweetly and affectionately, discouraging him, but taking care not
to wound him.

He began now to pity himself and his own fate, firmly believing that
his life, having been crossed by this hopeless love, would be wretched
for ever-more.

How could he expect that, having once known and loved a woman like
Mademoiselle de Courtaix, he would ever be able to love any woman whom
he would be in a position to marry.

And the poor young man, who, only three short weeks before, used to
dream at times of a little home presided over by a young wife, who
should be sweet and modest, though, perhaps, not remarkable in any
way, saw himself now condemned for life to a bachelor's dreary rooms,
where, in the end, he would die, surrounded by photographs of Bijou,
which he would get with great difficulty from Pierrot.

At the beginning of dinner Denyse did not talk much. She looked round
in an absent sort of way at the whole table, noticing all those
little nothings which are so amusing to persons capable of seeing
them.

Madame de Bracieux had M. de la Balue to her right, but she was
neglecting him for the sake of her old friend, Clagny, who was on her
other side, and to whom she never ceased talking.

M. de Jonzac, who was opposite his sister, between Madame de la Balue
and Madame de Tourville, only appeared to be enjoying himself in a
moderate degree. Madame de Nezel also looked rather sad, and talked in
a half-hearted way to her neighbours, Henry de Bracieux and M. de
Rueille. She glanced often in the direction of Jean de Blaye, who was
seated at the other end of the table, between Madame de Juzencourt and
Mademoiselle de la Balue. Jean did not seem to be taking any notice of
Madame de Nezel, and several times Bijou saw that his eyes were fixed
on her. She found this embarrassing; so turning towards young Balue,
started an animated conversation with him, and thereupon Jean, with a
somewhat troubled expression in his eyes, watched her all the time.




VII.


AFTER dinner the heat in the drawing-room was over-powering, and
Madame de Bracieux said to her guests:

"Those of you who are not afraid of the evening air could go out on to
the terrace or into the garden."

Gisele de la Balue, a big, tall girl, built on the model of the
statues round the Place de la Concorde, and who liked to affect free
and easy tom-boyish manners, started off out-doors, running along
heavily and calling out:

"Whoever cares for me will follow me!"

Hubert de Bernes followed her out of politeness.

Rueille, Henry de Bracieux, Pierrot, and M. Giraud turned with one
accord toward Denyse.

"Are you coming, Bijou?" asked Pierrot.

She saw Jean de Blaye talking to Madame de Nezel, who was just going
out with him, and she answered:

"I will come to you directly. I am going to see if the children are in
bed just now."

"Mademoiselle," proposed the abbe, "I can spare you the trouble."

"Oh, no; thank you very much, monsieur, but you know I never feel
quite happy if I have not kissed Fred."

She went out by the door opposite the terrace.

"Your grand-daughter is decidedly the most charming girl I have ever
come across," remarked M. de Clagny to the marchioness, and then he
added sadly; "It is when an old man meets women like that, that he
regrets his age."

"I must say," answered Madame de Bracieux, laughing, "that even if you
were young, you would not be just the husband I dream of for Bijou."

"And why not, if you please?"

"Well, because you are, or at least you were, rather--how shall I put
it?--rather large-hearted."

"Large-hearted! good heavens, yes, I was! but that was the fault of
those who did not know how to keep my affection. I assure you, though,
that with a wife like Bijou, I should never have been what you call
_large-hearted_."

"Oh, as to that," said Madame de Bracieux incredulously, "one never
knows."

On leaving the drawing-room, Bijou crossed the hall, and instead of
going up the wide staircase which led to the children's rooms, she
lifted the old green tapestry curtain which covered the door of the
butler's pantry. Just as she was going to open this door she turned
back into the hall to get a long, dark cloak, which was hanging there.
It was a Berck fisherwoman's cloak, which she always put on when it
rained. She wrapped herself up in it hastily, and then went into the
pantry, where it was now quite dark. From the kitchen she could hear
the loud voices of the servants, who were at dinner. Denyse went
across to the open window, got up on to a chair, and then gathering
her skirts closely round her, stepped out on to the window-sill, and
jumped lightly down into the garden.

Once there, she hesitated an instant. The terrace seemed to stand out
distinctly, lighted up by the drawing-room windows. In the chestnut
avenue she could distinguish in the shade the red gleam of cigars.

Suddenly she pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head, and
evidently making up her mind, started off quickly along the dark
pathway which led to the other avenue.

During this time her faithful admirers were waiting on the terrace for
her to come and join them as she had promised, and the ponderous
Gisele was endeavouring vainly to organise a game at hide-and-seek.
The men seemed to have no energy; Madame de Tourville was afraid of
spoiling her dress; and Madame de Juzencourt was strolling about with
Jean de Blaye and Madame de Nezel. Presently, however, she went back
to the others alone, and Mademoiselle de la Balue wanted to persuade
her to have a game, but she refused emphatically. She certainly was
not going to run about, she said, considering that she was too warm
already with only walking; she had just had to leave Therese de Nezel
and Jean de Blaye, for she could not walk another step.

Left to themselves, Jean and Madame de Nezel continued strolling
along, she in a natural, unaffected way, going on with the
conversation they had commenced, and he absent-minded and ill-at-case.

"Why do you not reproach me?" he said at last, abruptly, not able to
contain himself any longer; "why do you not say all the bad things you
think about me?"

"Because I have nothing to reproach you for," she answered, very
gently; "and I do not think any bad things about you."

"Well, then, you do not care about me any longer."

"I do not care about you any longer?" she said, and there was an
accent of such intense grief in her voice that he was quite overcome
by it.

He knew so well how deeply she loved him, that he dreaded the thought
of the awful suffering she would have to endure if he were to be quite
straightforward with her now, and so, out of affection for her, he
endeavoured to conceal from her the real truth.

"Yes," he began, improvising with difficulty an excuse of which he had
not thought until that moment, "you must have fancied that I was not
thinking of you, for you have been here at The Pines a fortnight, and
I have not sent you a line. The fact is, it is very difficult to
arrange to meet here at Pont-sur-Loire; everyone knows me here, and,
you see, for your sake, I scarcely liked to ask you to meet me in the
town."

She did not make any reply, and he could not understand her silence.

"Why do you not answer me?" he asked at length.

"Why? well, because you are telling me now exactly the opposite to
what you said when you asked me to accept the Juzencourts'
invitation."

"What did I say?" he asked, slightly embarrassed.

"You said that at Pont-sur-Loire it would be so easy to meet. You
said that between the hours of luncheon and dinner there were two
trains up and two down from The Pines to Pont-sur-Loire, and that I
could get away so easily, as the Juzencourts never went out except to
pay calls at the various country-houses in the neighbourhood, or to
follow the paper chases. On my arrival here I found that all these
details were perfectly exact."

"Yes, but it really is not so easy as I had imagined."

"Ah, Jean! instead of trying to deceive me in this way, it would be
much better to tell me the truth."

"And the truth, according to you, is that I no longer care for you?"

"Yes, that is a part of the truth."

"And," he asked, somewhat uneasily, "the rest?"--

"Is, that you are in love with Mademoiselle de Courtaix. Ah, do not
deny it! it is so evident!" And then, after a moment's silence, she
added: "And so natural!"

"Do you forgive me?"

"I have nothing to forgive. I have never demanded anything from you,
and you have never, never promised me anything. When I first began to
care for you, I was not a widow; you must therefore have judged me
severely, as a man nearly always does judge the woman who is weak
enough to care for him when she ought not to."

"I swear to you--"

"No, do not swear anything; you had all the more reason to judge me in
that way, because I did not think it my duty to tell you what my life
had been like until then. You doubtless believed that my husband was
kind and affectionate, and that I endured no remorse, when I allowed
myself to love you--"

"I did not think about it at all, I simply adored you," he said. And
then hesitating, and with evident anxiety, he continued: "And now you
will never care for me any more?"

"What!" she exclaimed, perfectly amazed at the unconscious selfishness
of the man, "you wish me to go on caring for you?"

"You ask if I wish it? why, what would become of me without you? you
who are my very life!" And then, as she moved back a step or two in
sheer bewilderment, he went on: "Well, but whatever have you been
imagining?--that I am going to marry Bijou, perhaps?"

"Why, yes."

He was about to explain to her why he could not marry his cousin, but
it occurred to him that the very prosaic reason for the impossibility
of such a match, would make his return to Madame de Nezel, of whom he
was really very fond, appear as a slight to her.

"It has only been a passing fancy that I have had for Bijou," he said.
"How could I help it? it is simply impossible to be always with her
and to escape being intoxicated by her beauty, and by her unconscious
and innocent coquetry. For the last fortnight I have been a fool--I am
still, in fact; but on seeing you again I knew at once that it is you
only whom I love, and belong to--heart and soul."

As he said this, he drew Madame de Nezel's pale face against his
shoulder, and, bending down, pressed his lips to hers, and then, as
the young widow nestled closer still in his arms, he said, with
passionate tenderness:

"How do you think that I could ever care for that child--with whom I
am always so reserved--in the way I care for you?" He could feel her
slender form trembling in his embrace, and, drawing her closer still,
he murmured: "Forgive me, darling, you are always so good, and if I
have sinned, it has only been in thought."

"You know I love you," she answered. "But we must go back to the house
at once; they will think our walk is lasting a long time."

Madame de Juzencourt, who was seated on the terrace, called out as
soon as she caught sight of them:

"Well, have you been walking all this time?"

And at the same moment M. de Rueille called out to Bijou, who had just
appeared at one of the windows:

"So that's the way you come out to us! It's very kind of you."

"I could not come before," she answered, stepping out, and then
approaching her cousin, she added, in a low voice: "I had to see to
the tea and the ices, etc., etc.; you must not be vexed with me."

"Vexed with you!" exclaimed Pierrot warmly. "Could anyone be vexed
with _you_, now?"

Bijou did not answer. She was watching Hubert de Bernes in an
absent-minded way, as he stood talking to Bertrade, and she was
wondering how it was that he was so cool in his manner towards
herself. He was polite, certainly, and even pleasant, but _only_
polite and pleasant, and she was not accustomed to such moderation. M.
de Clagny appeared presently at one of the windows and called out:

"Mademoiselle Bijou, your grandmamma wants you."

Denyse ran into the house, her silk skirts rustling as she went. She
did not even stay to answer young La Balue, who, pointing to Henry de
Bracieux as he stood with the light showing up his profile, had just
remarked:

"What a handsome man Henry is."

"Bijou," said the marchioness, "I want you to sing something for us."

"Oh! grandmamma, please"--she began, in a beseeching tone, and looking
annoyed.

"M. de Clagny wants to hear you," said Madame de Bracieux, insisting.

"Oh, very well, then, I will, certainly," replied Bijou pleasantly,
without taking into account that her way of consenting was not very
flattering for the rest of her grandmother's guests.

She went to the piano, and, taking up a guitar, put the pink ribbon
which was attached to it round her neck, and then came back and took
up her position in the midst of the semi-circle formed by the
arm-chairs.

"I am going to accompany myself with the guitar," she said; "it is
simpler." And then turning to M. de Clagny, she asked: "What do you
want me to sing? Do you like the old-fashioned songs?" and without
waiting for a reply, she began the ballad of the "Petit Soldat":

    "Je me suis engage
    Pour l'amour d'une blonde."

She had a good ear and a pretty voice, which she used skilfully, and
it was with plaintive sweetness that she sang the touching story of
the young soldier who "veut qu'on mette son coeur dans une serviette
blanche."

The drawing-room soon filled when Bijou began to sing, and the various
expressions on the different faces were most amusing to see.

Jean was listening in a nervous, excited way, pulling his fair
moustache irritably through his fingers.

M. de Rueille, affected in spite of himself by the doleful air, and
annoyed that all these people should be admiring Bijou, was pacing up
and down at the other end of the drawing-room, pretending not to be
listening to the music.

Pierrot, with his mouth open, was all attention. Young La Balue, with
his elbow resting on a side-table in an awkward and ridiculous pose,
kept his colourless eyes fixed on the young girl in a gaze which he
tried to make magnetic, and with such bold persistency that Henry de
Bracieux felt the most extraordinary desire to walk up to him and box
his ears. Even Abbe Courteil was carried away by the plaintive
ballad; he was deeply moved, and sat there with his eyes stretched
wide open, breathing heavily. Hubert de Bernes only was listening with
polite attention, but comparative indifference. As to the ladies, all,
except, perhaps, Gisele de la Balue, admired Bijou sincerely.

Madame de Nezel was listening with a mournful expression in her eyes,
and a kind-hearted smile, whilst as for M. de Clagny, it was as though
all the sensitiveness and affection of his nature had gone out towards
this pretty, fragile-looking, young creature. His eyes, beaming with
tenderness, seemed to take in at the same time, the beautiful face,
the little rosy fingers as they touched the strings of the guitar, and
the slender, supple figure.

When Bijou had come to the end of her song, she went up to him,
without paying any attention to the compliments that were being
showered on her, and, in a pretty, coaxing way, she asked:

"It did not bore you too much, I hope?"

M. de Clagny could not answer for a moment. He felt choked with
emotion.

"I shall often ask you for that song again," he said at last. "Yes, I
shall come often, and you will sing me the 'Petit Soldat,' won't you?"

He had a great desire to hear Bijou sing for him--for him alone; he
did not want to share her voice and her charm with all these people
whom he now detested.

"You shall come as often as you please," she answered, looking
delighted, "and I will sing you everything you like," and then gliding
away she went across to Jean de Blaye, who was standing alone at the
other end of the drawing-room. "It annoys you when I sing, doesn't
it?" she asked him.

"Why, no!" he answered, surprised at the question, and surprised that
Bijou should trouble about him. "Why should you think so?"

"Because I saw you just now--you were pulling your moustache in the
most furious way, and you looked bored to death. Yes, you certainly
did look bored!"

"It was just your own imagination."

"Oh, no! it was not just my imagination. When I care about anyone I am
always very clear-sighted! so, you see, it is quite the contrary. Why
are you frowning now?"

"I am not frowning."

"Oh, yes, you were, and it looks as though what I said just now had
vexed you, too."

"What did you just say?"

"That I am very clear-sighted. And you are vexed, because you are
afraid that I shall see that something is the matter."

"Something the matter?" he asked uneasily. "What is it?"

"What is it? Ah! I don't know! But most certainly something is the
matter with you--you are not at all like yourself ever since--why,
ever since we have been at Bracieux."

"Really?" he said, putting on a joking tone. "I am different, am
I--and the most extraordinary thing is, that I did not know myself
about this difference."

Bijou shrugged her pretty shoulders.

"Don't try to take me in like that, Jean, my dear; I know you too
well, you see. You are different, I tell you! You have gradually got
very abrupt, restless, and absent-minded. Listen, now,--would you like
me to tell you what it is?"

Seated at some distance away from them, Madame de Nezel was watching
them, with an expression of melancholy resignation.

Bijou glanced across at her, and the young girl's violet eyes gleamed
between her long, thick lashes, as she said:

"You are in love with someone who does not return your love."

Jean de Blaye coloured up furiously.

"You don't know what you are talking about," he answered.

"Well, then, why have you gone so red? Oh, how proud you are. You are
vexed because I have found this out." And then, after a short silence,
she began again: "Have you told her?"

"Have I told what? and whom? My dear Bijou, how foolish you are."

"Have you told Mad--" She stopped abruptly, and then, with her face
turned towards Madame de Nezel, she continued: "The person with whom
you are in love, have you told her that you love her?"

"No!" he murmured, in a stifled sort of voice.

"You are afraid to? but why? I constantly hear grandmamma, Bertrade,
Paul, and Uncle Alexis, saying over and over again that you are the
kind of man women like; _she_ would be sure to like you, too, and she
would marry you, I am certain." She leaned towards him, nearly
touching his ear as she whispered to him, and not caring what effect
her familiarity might have. "Listen, now, if you like I will tell her
for you, and I am quite sure what her answer will be."

Jean rose abruptly, and seizing Bijou's hand, he asked excitedly:

"What are you saying?"

"I am just saying that she _will_ love you, if she does not already."

"But of whom are you speaking--of whom?" he stammered out, aghast.

She answered him in a hesitating way, with a frank look on her pretty
face, but she spoke in such a low voice that he could scarcely catch
her first words.

"I am speaking of----"

"Bijou!" called out Pierrot, separating them unceremoniously,
"grandmamma says you are forgetting about the tea." And then, looking
at their faces, he went on: "Well, I never! you are both as red as
cherries; there's no mistake about it, it's baking hot in here."

Denyse hurried away, and Pierrot continued:

"We thought over there that you were quarrelling."

"Ah! you thought that, did you?" answered Jean, by way of saying
something.

"Yes, especially grandmamma; that's why she sent me to tell Bijou
about the tea. I say, Bijou isn't worried about anything, is she?"

"Well, now, what kind of worry do you fancy she could have, my dear
fellow?" And then, with a smile, he added: "Who do you imagine would
undertake to cause her any worry? It seems to me that anyone who did
venture to would have a bad time of it in this house."

"She's so sweet, and so nice always," answered the boy, with great
warmth. "As for me, why, I just adore her; and Paul does, too, and so
does Henry, and M. Giraud, and Bertrade's kids, and the abbe, and
everyone, in fact; even little La Balue is gone on her, and he's never
gone on anyone. Yes, he was telling her I don't know what up in a
corner of the room after dinner, and then, when she was singing--did
you ever see such eyes as he was making at her?--oh, no! if you had
only just seen him----"

"Do shut up!" exclaimed Jean irritably, "you wear everyone out, if you
only knew it, my dear Pierrot."

When Bijou came back to the drawing-room, Henry de Bracieux waylaid
her.

"I say," he began, in a cross-grained tone, "what was La Balue telling
you just now that appeared to be so interesting?"

"Where?"

"Here, after dinner."

"Here?" repeated Bijou, apparently trying to recall something to her
memory, "after dinner? Ah, I remember; why, he was talking about
you!'

"About me?"

"Yes, about you! He thinks you are very handsome, but he also thinks
that you do not know how to make the most of your good looks."

"Have you finished making game of me?"

"I assure you that I am not making game of you--not the least bit in
the world. He even advised me to tell you that instead of your
frightful stand-up collars--these are his words, you know, and not
mine--you ought to wear--what did he call them now?--oh, Van Dyck
collars, which would not cover your neck up, for it appears that your
throat is superb, and your head so well set on your shoulders; and
then you have lovely teeth! I only wish you could hear him sing the
praises of your personal appearance."

"Of my personal appearance! Mine?"

"Why, yes; you thought, perhaps, that he was talking to me of mine?
Not at all! He informed me, too, that he was going to tell you all
that in poetry; not the Van Dyck collars, but the rest."

"That young man is an idiot!"

"Oh, dear me, he is very harmless."

"You are so good-hearted always, you never dig into anyone. Ah,
attention! they are packing up, the La Balue crew!" And Henry, in a
low voice, and apparently delighted, finished up with a "Hip! hip!
hurrah!"

M. de la Balue, who was just coming out of the hall with a heap of
cloaks, looked at him in astonishment, while at the doorway a little
family quarrel took place. The good man wanted to make his wife and
daughter wrap their heads up in some very ordinary-looking knitted
shawls, so that they should not get a chill. He was obliged, however,
to give in at last.

Bijou, on saying good-bye to Madame de Nezel, held out her little
hand, and looked straight into her eyes with such an expression of
innocent curiosity that the young widow turned away, quite confused by
the persistency of the young girl's gaze. It seemed to her as though
this child had discovered the secret of her life, and the bare idea of
this caused her intense misery.

Bijou's charm, however, was so great, and her power of attraction so
strong, that Madame de Nezel, at the bottom of her heart, felt nothing
but affection for the lovely little creature who had so unconsciously
stolen her happiness from her.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Denyse gaily, when she went back into the
drawing-room, where only M. de Clagny and the family now remained, "it
is half-past twelve, you know; they all seemed like fixtures, and I
thought they were never going to leave us!"

"The La Balue family are not very handsome," remarked the abbe.

"Oh, they are not so bad," protested the young girl; "it is only a
question of getting used to them, that's all!"

"Young Balue is horrible!" said Madame de Bracieux. "And then, too,
there is something snaky about him. When you shake hands with him, it
is like touching an eel."

"And the daughter, too!" put in Pierrot. "Ugh, she has such little
pig's eyes! and Louis, too, has little eyes!"

"They are very nice, though, all the same," said Bijou, in a
conciliatory tone.

"And they come of very good family," added Madame de Bracieux; "they
are descended from La Balue, from the Cardinal, the real--"

"Oh, well," put in Bijou gently, "it would, perhaps, be better for
Gisele not to have descended from the iron cage, but to have larger
eyes; however, as it cannot be helped--"

M. de Clagny laughed, as he turned round to look about for his hat,
which he had put down somewhere in the room.

"One needs to have a certain amount of assurance," he said, "in making
one's exit from here, for one feels how one will be pulled to pieces."

"You need not be afraid," said Bijou, "we shall not pull you to
pieces, although you could stand it very well. I promise you, though,
that you shall not be pulled to pieces. Will you take my word for it?"

"Yes, I will take your word," answered the count, as he took the
little hands, which were held out to him, and pressed them
affectionately in his.




VIII.


"ARE you going for a ride, Bijou?" called out Pierrot, leaning out of
the window.

Denyse, who was just crossing the courtyard, pointed to her
riding-habit.

"Well, you can be sure that in this heat I should not entertain myself
by walking about in a cloth dress if I were not going to ride."

"Where are you going?"

"Why?"

"So that we can come and meet you--we two--M. Giraud and I,--at eleven
o'clock!"

Just behind Pierrot the tutor's head was to be seen.

"I am going to The Borderettes to take a message to Lavenue," answered
Bijou; and then, seeing Giraud, she said pleasantly: "Good morning. I
shall see you again, then, soon?"

Patatras was waiting in the shade. The old coachman, who always
accompanied Bijou, helped her into her saddle, and then, mounting in
his turn, prepared to follow her. When Pierrot saw this, he called out
again:

"How is it that none of the cousins are riding with you?"

"I did not tell them that I was going out."

"Ah!" he exclaimed regretfully, "if I were only free, wouldn't I come
with you!"

She turned round in her saddle, with an easy movement which showed
that she was not laced in at all, and answered Pierrot, with a merry
laugh:

"I should not have told you though, either!"

As soon as Bijou had passed through the gateway, she put Patatras to a
gallop, for the flies were teasing him dreadfully.

She went along through the hot air, meeting the sun, the burning rays
of which fell full on her pretty face without making it red. She did
not slacken her pace until she arrived at the narrow lane leading to
The Borderettes. It was almost perpendicular, and covered with loose
stones, and at the bottom of the little valley, which was very green,
in spite of the dry season, the farm, with its white walls and red
roof, looked like a perfectly new toy-house. When she was at the
bottom of the hill, Bijou pulled out of her pocket a little
looking-glass, and then arranged her veil and the loose curly locks of
hair, which had blown over her ears and the back of her neck. She then
gathered from the hedge a spray of mulberry blossom, which she
fastened in the bodice of her habit, arranged the little handkerchief,
trimmed with Valenciennes, daintily in her side-pocket, and then,
after another short gallop, pulled up at the entrance to the farm.

A rough voice called out: "Are you there, master?" and then a young
farm labourer came out of the house, saying: "Master ain't heard me
call; I'll go and find him."

A minute or two later, a tall young man, of some thirty-five years of
age, appeared. He was a true type of the Norman peasant, somewhat
meagre-looking, with fair hair, and a slight stoop. He looked very
warm and was out of breath. His face was so red that it seemed to be
turning purple.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, trying to get his breath again, "it's you,
Mad'moiselle Denyse, it's you, is it?"

"Yes, Monsieur Lavenue," she answered, smiling, "it is."

"Won't you get down?" he asked, holding out his hand to help her.

"No, thanks! I have only come to bring you a message from grandmamma.
It is about the Confirmation dinner next Monday; but you know all
about that, as you are the mayor?"

"Yes, I know about it!"

"Well, grandmamma would like to have some very nice peaches for
Monday, and some very nice pears; in fact, all kinds of nice things,
such as grow in your orchard."

"They shall bring you them, Mad'moiselle Denyse! You can be quite easy
about that. I'll see they are well chosen." And then, as the young
girl turned her horse round, he said, as he watched her, almost dazed
with admiration: "Are you going to start back already, mad'moiselle?
Won't you stop and have some refreshment--a bowl of milk now? I know
you like a drop o' good milk!" And then, in a persuasive tone, he
added, as he took hold of Patatras' bridle, "That 'ud give the horse a
rest, too; he's very warm after the run."

Farmer Lavenue's way of talking always amused Bijou. It had been more
than ten years now since the sturdy Norman had emigrated to Touraine,
and yet he had not lost his strong Norman accent in the slightest
degree.

It was Madame de Bracieux, who, thoroughly dissatisfied with the
Touraine farmers, had taken up this man. Charlemagne Lavenue had never
fraternised with the regular inhabitants of the place. He was looked
up to and admired by the simple-minded and unskilful villagers, who
saw him making money in the very place where others had been ruined.
He had, by "sending for people from his part of the world," gradually
transformed The Borderettes into a small Normandy, and he had so much
influence now in the place that he, an interloper, had been elected
mayor of Bracieux, to the exclusion of the former notables of the
place.

As Denyse did not reply, he lifted her down from her horse, saying as
he did so: "You will, mad'moiselle, won't you?" And then, after giving
the reins to the old groom, he led the way to the door of the farm,
and stood aside for Bijou to enter.

"How nice it is here, Monsieur Lavenue," she exclaimed, in a pleasant
way. "Have I ever seen this room before? No, I don't think I have!"

"Yes, you've seen it, mad'moiselle, only, you know, it's been fresh
white-washed, and, you see, that makes it different-like."

"When you are married, now," she said, smiling, "it will be very nice,
indeed."

Farmer Lavenue, who was looking at Bijou with hungry eyes, held his
head up erect, and then, shaking it slowly, he answered, with some
hesitation:

"I can't decide to give the farm a mistress, because I don't come
across one as suits me." And after a moment's silence, he added:
"That is to say, amongst them as I could have."

"Why, how's that? any of the girls from Bracieux, or Combes, or from
the villages round The Borderettes, would marry you, Monsieur Lavenue,
and there are some very pretty girls among them."

"I can't see as they are," he answered, blushing, and twisting about
in his fingers the huge, broad-brimmed hat which he always wore the
whole year round.

"You are difficult to please, then; do you mean that you don't think
Catherine Lebour pretty?"

"No, Mad'moiselle Denyse."

"Nor Josephine Lacaille?"

"No, Mad'moiselle Denyse."

"And Louise Pature?"

"No, mad'moiselle."

Bijou laughed merrily. "Oh, well, do you mean to say that you don't
admire any woman?"

"Yes, I do--there's _one_--"

"Who is it?" she asked, looking full at the peasant, with her frank,
innocent expression.

Lavenue turned redder still, and stooped down with an awkward movement
to pick up his hat, which had fallen to the ground.

"I can't say," he stuttered out; "she isn't for such as me."

Bijou did not hear his reply. With her pretty figure slightly bent,
and her head thrown back, she was slowly drinking a second cup of
milk, whilst the farmer, who had recovered himself, stood still, with
his eyes wide open, gazing at this fragile-looking young creature in
timid, half-fearful admiration.

When Bijou had finished her milk, she looked at him critically, with a
smile on her lips.

"My goodness! how warm it is to-day," he said, wiping with the back of
his hand the great drops of perspiration, which stood out on his
forehead.

"Thank you, so much, Monsieur Lavenue," said Denyse, getting up; "your
milk is delicious."

"Oh! but you aren't surely going to start off again already?" he said,
with a downcast look.

"Already! why, I have been here at least a quarter of an hour."

"Oh, well! it's been precious quick to me that quarter of an hour!" he
stammered; and then, in a lower voice, he added: "Thank you, very
much, Mad'moiselle Denyse, for the honour as you've done me. I sha'n't
forget it, that's certain!"

On getting up, Bijou had let the flowers, which she was wearing in her
bodice, fall to the ground.

As she turned towards the door, to see whether the horses were there,
the peasant, with a stealthy movement, stretched his long, sinewy body
out along the floor, and, snatching up the flowers, hid them away
under his blouse.

The groom was about to descend from his horse in order to help Denyse
to mount; but she made a sign to stop him.

"Monsieur Lavenue will help me on to my horse," she said; "he is very
strong."

She put her foot out in order to place it in the farmer's hand; but,
without any warning, he put his hands round her waist, and then,
steadying her a second against himself, he lifted her straight into
the saddle.

"Oh, well!" she exclaimed, in amazement, "I said you were strong, but
however could you hold me at arm's length like that, and put me on to
my horse, which is so tall?" and then, as he did not speak, but just
stood there, looking down and breathing heavily, she added: "There,
you see, I was too heavy! You are quite out of breath."

She started off before he had time to answer, calling out to him as
she rode away:

"Good morning, and thank you again, very much!"

Just as she was turning out of the farmyard, she looked round again at
the farmer, who was standing motionless, as though rooted to the
spot, with his arms hanging down at his sides.

"Don't forget grandmamma's peaches and pears, Monsieur Lavenue!" she
called out.

She then looked at her watch, and found that it was five minutes past
eleven. She had plenty of time to return home without hurrying, and
then, too, M. Giraud and Pierrot were to meet her, and they were never
free until eleven o'clock.

As she passed through a village, she gathered a spray of clematis from
the cemetery wall to replace the flowers which she had dropped, and
then, when she found herself quite alone, she took out her little
looking-glass again, and fluffed her hair up, as it was not curly
enough now that the heat had made it limp. At half-past eleven, as she
saw no signs of those whom she was expecting, she began to get
impatient, and put her horse to a gallop, for Patatras was getting
tired, and would keep stopping, and doing his utmost to browse the
leaves along the hedges.

Suddenly a serious, almost melancholy, expression came over the girl's
pretty, happy-looking face. She was just crossing a meadow, which was
skirted by a wood.

"Hallo, Bijou! that's how you cut us, is it?" exclaimed a voice.

She stopped short, looking surprised, and turned back a few steps.

Pierrot and M. Giraud, who had been lying down in the shade, rose from
the ground, leaving the long grass marked with their impress.

"Why, you are here already!" she said; "I did not expect to meet you
so far away from home; at what time did you start, then?"

"A little before the hour," answered Pierrot; and then he added slily,
winking at his tutor: "M'sieu' Giraud was a brick; he let me off a bit
earlier--without me begging much, either--and now, if we want to be at
Bracieux at twelve o'clock, we shall have to put our best feet first!"

They were walking along by the side of Bijou.

"Have you recovered from yesterday evening?" she asked, addressing M.
Giraud.

"Recovered?" said the young tutor. "How _recovered_?"

"Because you could not have enjoyed yourself very much! M. de
Tourville and M. de Juzencourt blocked you up, one after the other, in
a corner, to explain to you: the one that Charles de Tourville
embarked with William the Conqueror in 1066; and the other, that a
Juzencourt fought against Charles the Bold in 1477 under the walls of
Nancy. Am I not right?"

"Quite right! and M. de Juzencourt added that there was only blue
blood in his family. I did not quite understand why he should tell me
that."

"In order to prove to you that, traced clearly only since 1477, but
without the slightest _mesalliance_, the Juzencourts are more
respectable than the Tourvilles."

"Oh, indeed!"

"Yes, M. de Tourville married a young lady who was all very well, but
her name was Chaillot, and her father is on the Stock Exchange; you
see, therefore, that, as regards the Tourvilles, the family is older
than the Juzencourt family, but it is not so pure. You managed to put
such a good face on as you listened to all that. Oh, dear! I could
have laughed if you had not looked so wretched."

"It wasn't just the nuisance of having to listen to the Tourville and
Juzencourt yarns that made him look like that," observed Pierrot. "For
some time past he is always like that, even with me, and I can promise
you that I don't overpower him with yarns, either about Charles the
Bold or William the Conqueror."

"I am quite convinced on that score!" said Bijou, laughing.

"Dear me! it isn't that there'd be any difficulty about it,"
protested Pierrot. "I _could_ very well if I wanted to, but--confound
it!"

"Confound it! again?" said the young tutor, annoyed, and looking
reproachfully at his pupil. "You know that M. de Jonzac objects to
your speaking in that way. He particularly wishes you to be more
careful, and more correct, in your choice of words."

"Oh, well! if he were to talk to my friends, he'd hear a few things,
and he'd soon get used to it, too. It's always like that; just a
matter of getting used to things."

"I cannot imagine that very well, though," said Bijou; "Uncle Alexis
letting himself get used to the style of conversation of your
friends."

She drew up whilst she was speaking, and pointed to something in the
wood.

"Oh! look at that beautiful mountain ash, isn't it red? How pretty
those bunches are!"

"Do you want some of those berries?" proposed Pierrot.

"Yes, I should like some, they are so beautiful."

The youth entered the coppice, and they heard the branches snapping as
he broke them in order to make himself a passage, and presently the
top of the red tree shook and swayed, now bending down, and now
springing up again, as Pierrot shook it roughly.

Bijou, with her head bent, and a far-away look in her eyes, seemed to
be in a dream, quite oblivious of what was going on around her. She
started on hearing Pierrot's voice as he called out to her to know
whether he was to gather a large bunch.

"There is nothing worrying you, is there, mademoiselle?" asked
Monsieur Giraud timidly, as he stroked Patatras gently.

"Oh, no! Why?"

"Because you do not seem quite like yourself; you look rather sad."

"Sad?" she said, forcing a smile. "I look sad?"

"Yes. Just now, when you passed by without seeing us, you looked sad,
very sad, and now again--"

"Just now--that's quite possible. Yes, I did not feel quite gay; but,
now, why, I have no reason to be otherwise--quite the contrary. I feel
so happy here, in this velvety-looking field, and with this beautiful
sunshine that I love so much!" And then she added, as though in a
dream, and not taking any notice of the young man: "Yes, I am so
happy, I should like to stay like this for ever and ever."

She pressed her rosy lips to the spray of clematis with which she had
been playing the last minute or two, and then put it back into her
bodice, not seeing the hand which Giraud was holding out beseechingly
towards the poor flowers, which were already withering.

Pierrot came out of the thicket at this moment, carrying an immense
bunch of mountain ash berries. Bijou was smiling again by this time.

"You are ever so kind, Pierrot dear," she said, after thanking him,
"and all the more so as you will have the bother of carrying that for
another mile yet."

"Oh! if it would give you any pleasure, you know, I'd do things that
were a lot more bother than that!"

"You are good, Pierrot."

"It isn't because I'm good;" he said, and then coming nearer, so that
he touched the horse, he added very softly: "It's because I'm so fond
of you."

Bijou did not answer, and in another minute Pierrot began again:

"How well you sang last night. Didn't she, M'sieu' Giraud?"

"Wonderfully well," said the tutor. "And what a lovely voice! so
fresh, and so pure. I can understand something now which I did not
understand yesterday."

"What may that be?"

"The infinite power of the voice! Yes, before hearing you I did not
know what I know at present. You will sing again, will you not,
mademoiselle? Fancy, I have been here three weeks, and I had never had
the happiness of--"

"I will give you _that happiness_ as much as ever you like."

She was joking again now, for the little dreamy creature of a minute
before was Bijou once more.

As they approached the chateau, she put her hand up to shade her eyes.

"Why, what's going on?" she said; "the hall-door steps look black with
people."

"Hang it!" exclaimed Pierrot crossly. "They are all out there watching
for you! There's Paul, and there's Henry, and the abbe, and Uncle
Alexis, and Bertrade. Look, though! Who's that? You are right--there
are some other folks too. Ah! it's old Dubuisson, and Jeanne, and then
there's a fellow I don't know; a fellow all in black. Oh, well! he
must be a shivery sort to come to the country dressed in black, in
such heat as this."

"Perhaps it's M. Spiegel, Jeanne's _fiance_. They were to bring him."

"Yes, that must be it! I say, he doesn't look a very lively sort, your
Jeanne's _fiance_. She isn't though either--"

Bijou was looking round to see what had become of Giraud, who had
suddenly become so silent. He was following the young girl,
worshipping her as he walked along as though she were some idol.

Just at this moment, whilst Pierrot was very much taken up with
looking in the direction of the chateau, the little bunch of clematis
dropped from Bijou's dress, and fell at the tutor's feet. He picked it
up quickly, and slipped it into his pocket-book, after kissing it,
with a kind of passionate devotion, whilst behind him, the old groom,
silent and correct as usual, laughed to himself.




IX.


M. DUBUISSON, whom the students called "Old Dubuisson," was the
principal of the college.

He had brought his daughter to Bracieux, where she was to spend a week
with Bijou, and Jeanne's _fiance_, a young professor, newly appointed
at the Pont-sur-Loire College, had accompanied them.

"How warm you must be, my dear Bijou," called out the marchioness,
appearing at one of the windows.

"Oh, no, grandmamma," answered Denyse, taking M. de Rueille's hand in
order to descend from her horse. "M. Giraud and Pierrot must be
warm--I am all right."

She kissed Jeanne heartily, spoke to M. Dubuisson, and then looked in
a hesitating way towards the young professor, who was contemplating
her in surprise.

"Bijou, this is Monsieur Spiegel," said Mademoiselle Dubuisson.

With a graceful, pretty movement, which was very taking, Bijou held
out her little hand to the young man.

"We are friends at once," she said; and then, as she moved away with
Jeanne, she whispered: "He is charming, you know, quite charming!"

M. Spiegel perhaps overheard this kindly criticism, or else it was
just by accident that he happened to turn very red at that moment.

"Go and change your dress quickly, Bijou!" commanded the marchioness.

"But, grandmamma, I am not warm, really and truly."

"Come here! Let me see!"

In a docile way, Bijou went up to Madame de Bracieux.

"Well, grandmamma?" she said, when the marchioness had satisfied
herself by putting her finger between the young girl's neck and her
collar, "wasn't I right?"

"Yes, it's quite true," said Madame de Bracieux unwillingly, "she is
not warm at all; it is incomprehensible! Well, stay as you are then,
if you like." She made her grand-daughter turn round just in front of
her, and then remarked, in a satisfied tone, "You look very well like
that. Those little white, pique jackets are very becoming."

"They suit Bijou," said Bertrade, "because, with her complexion,
everything suits her; but these little English jackets are very
unbecoming to most women."

Abbe Courteil looked at the black skirt, the white jacket, and then at
Bijou herself.

"At all events, the black and white together is perfectly charming.
Mademoiselle Denyse looks like a big swallow."

"Well, well!" exclaimed the marchioness, with a benevolent expression
in her eyes, "that's very pretty, now, that comparison!"

Though she herself was the topic of conversation, Bijou was paying no
attention to what was being said, but was talking in a pleasant way to
M. Spiegel, a little apart from the others.

He was a serious, placid, young man, with a somewhat rigid expression.
His eyes, however, had a merry twinkle, which relieved the severity of
his mouth, and the austerity of his deportment.

He was rather tall, and slightly made, and was dressed in dark clothes
of a good cut. Altogether M. Spiegel might have passed for a young
clergyman. Fascinated and almost bewildered by Bijou's charm and
wonderful beauty, he was gazing at her with a look of surprise and
admiration in his eyes, whilst the young girl, for her part, kept
stealing a glance at him, for she was quite astonished to find that
Jeanne's _fiance_ was so satisfactory-looking.

Luncheon seemed to be very long. The marchioness's guests were all
engaged in studying each other, some of them absent-minded and silent,
and the others talkative, but singularly preoccupied also.

Madame de Bracieux was witnessing, without understanding in the least
what it all meant, the change of attitude, or, in fact, the
transformation which had commenced a few days ago. She could scarcely
recognise her little troop with whom she had hitherto been able to do
just as she liked.

M. Spiegel and Bijou, who were placed next to each other at the table,
were the only ones who talked with the animation of those who have
something to say, and who are not talking for the mere sake of
talking.

Several times Jeanne Dubuisson, seated on the right of M. Spiegel,
turned towards him with a little flash in her usually soft blue eyes.
She was thinking, sorrowfully, that her _fiance_ certainly seemed to
prefer looking at Bijou to looking at her, and a feeling of sadness
came over her at the idea that she had never seen his eyes resting on
her with as much expression in them as there was now when he gazed at
Bijou.

Jeanne, who was nineteen, looked much older than Denyse, although she
was a little like her. Her hair, which was fair like Bijou's, was less
glossy, and not so auburn, although it was thicker; her eyes were of a
less uncommon blue; her teeth were as white, but not so regular; her
complexion was less brilliant, and her head not so well set on her
shoulders.

Bijou, who was very short, wore very high heels in order to look
taller, whilst Jeanne, who was tall enough, always wore flat-heeled
boots.

The one fairly dazzled everyone by her wonderful beauty, whilst the
other would pass by almost unnoticed, her chief claim to prettiness
being a certain charm of expression, which betokened an unselfish
disposition and a kind heart.

After luncheon, Bijou carried Jeanne off with her to the park which
surrounded the chateau. She had scarcely seen her friend since her
engagement.

"Why," asked Bijou, "did you tell me so calmly that M. Spiegel was
rather good-looking?"

"Well, because I think he is," answered Mademoiselle Dubuisson. "Do
you mean to say that you--"

"Oh, come now, don't act; you know perfectly well that he is more than
_rather_ good-looking."

"But--"

"Yes, don't you see, from the description you gave me, I expected to
see a nice young man with a goody sort of look about him--rather a
bore, in fact--and then, instead, you bring us a most delightful man.
You ought to have prepared us; you ought not to give people such
shocks--" And then, not giving Jeanne time to reply, she continued:
"Where did you meet him?"

"This spring, at Easter, when we went to Bordeaux to stay with my
aunt."

"And it was settled at once."

"No, but I liked him from the first."

"Yes, you are one of the affectionate kind."

"And I soon saw that he, too, liked very much to be with me."

"And then?"

"Well, then, we came away, and I felt wretched, of course. I thought I
was mistaken, and that he did not care about me at all."

"You did not tell me anything about all that."

"No; in the first place I imagined that it was all over, and then I
should not have liked to talk about it to anyone, not even to you; it
seems to me that, about such matters--well, when one is in love, one
should only talk about it to one's own self; that is the only way to
be quite understood."

"Oh, then, you fancy that I do not understand anything about love?"

"About love such as I understand it? no! you are too pretty, you see,
and then you are too much feted and adored by everyone to be able, as
I have done, to satisfy and content yourself with an immense affection
for one person only."

Bijou sighed, as she said regretfully:

"It must be so happy, though, to love anyone like that."

"Well, it would be easy enough for you; your cousin M. de Blaye adores
you. Oh, it is no use denying it--it is so perfectly evident; I saw it
instantly."

"You are dreaming--" said Bijou, looking astounded.

"Oh, dear, no! he is in love with you, madly in love with you, and he
seems to me to be a man worthy of your love."

"Instead of talking nonsense, finish telling me the story of your
engagement. We had got as far as where you left Bordeaux, thinking
that all was over. What next?"

"Well, next, a fortnight ago, the professorship of philosophy was
vacant, and papa was surprised to hear that M. Spiegel had been
appointed to it. 'It is a come-down,' he said to me, 'for
Pont-sur-Loire is not as good as Bordeaux'; but not at all--it was no
come-down."

"It was he himself, then, who had asked for the change?"

"Exactly! and last Monday, he and his mother arrived at our house to
ask papa's consent."

"What's his mother like?"

"Very nice, and good-looking still; but she seems rather severe, a
little bit hard."

"Don't take any notice of that; Protestants always appear like that."

"How do you know that she is a Protestant?"

"Because I suppose that she is of the same religion as her son."

"But who told you that M. Spiegel is a Protestant?"

"No one. I discovered that all alone; it did not take me long
either--"

"But how can you know--"

"I do not know anything, and yet you see I do know all the same; it's
a very good thing to be able to marry a Protestant; they are less
frivolous, more serious, and more constant."

"Yes, perhaps so; but his mother, as I told you looks very severe,
very; and she is going to live with us."

"Oh, well, so much the better. It is a safe-guard, don't you know, to
have a mother with you who is somewhat austere. In the first place,
she will inspire everyone with respect for you."

"I don't think I need anyone to inspire people with respect for me,
and, anyhow, it seems to me that if I did, why, my husband would be--"

"Not at all! oh, no! parents are quite different, and I was brought up
to worship my parents, and to believe that their presence brings not
only respect but happiness into the home."

"Oh, yes, I think that, too, as regards papa; but Madame Spiegel is a
stranger to me, as it were, and I do feel that I owe her a little
grudge for coming to intrude on the privacy of our home-life, which
would have seemed so much happier alone."

"You must say to yourself that she is the mother of your husband, that
he loves her, and that you ought to love her for his sake."

"You are quite right. How I wish I were like you, Bijou dear! you are
so much better than I am."

"I am an angel, am I not? that's settled."

"You are joking; but it is quite, quite true."

"Tell me, won't it make you miserable to be away from your _fiance_
all this week, which you are going to spend with me?"

"No; besides he will come with papa to see me if your grandmamma will
allow him to, and then he is going to Paris for a few days."

"And here I am walking you about, like the thoughtless creature that I
am, forgetting that the unhappy young man is sure to be wretched
without you. Let us go in; shall we?"

"Yes, I am quite willing."

A bright gleam suddenly came into Bijou's eyes, shaded as they were by
their long lashes, and then, putting on an indifferent air, she said
to her friend:

"Tell me what little incident could possibly have given you the
extraordinary idea that Jean de Blaye cares for me?"

"The way he looked at you all through luncheon, and then, too, his
annoyance when we were all out on the steps this morning watching for
you, and he saw you coming with young Jonzac and his tutor."

"You have too much imagination."

"No; I am sure that he is in love with you--and very much so!--and
what about you?"

"What about me?"

"You--you don't care for him?"

"No, not in the way you mean, at least. He is my cousin; I like him
just as one does like a nice cousin, whom one knows too well to care
for in any other way."

"It's a pity."

"Why?"

"Because it seems to me that you would be happy with him."

Bijou shook her head.

"I don't think so; I must have a husband more steady than Jean."

"More steady? but he must be thirty-four or thirty-five--M. de Blaye."

"What does that matter? he is not steady, you know--not by any means."

"Ah! I did not know."

"Then, too, I should want my husband to only care for me."

"Well, pretty and fascinating as you are, you can make your mind easy
about that."

Bijou stopped suddenly in the middle of the garden-walk.

"Is not that a carriage coming up the drive?" she asked, pointing to
the avenue.

"Yes, certainly it is."

"What sort of a carriage? I cannot see anything, I am so
short-sighted."

"A phaeton with two horses, and a gentleman I don't know is driving."

"Ah, yes, that's it!" And then, as Jeanne looked at her inquiringly,
she added: "It is M. de Clagny--a friend of grandmamma's--the owner
of The Noriniere."

"Ah! the man who is so rich!"

"So rich? Do you think he is so rich? I have not heard a word about
that!"

"Oh, yes; he is immensely wealthy--and all his fortune is in land."

Bijou was not listening to this. She had just gathered a daisy, which
was growing amongst the grass, bending its little timid head over the
garden pathway, and she was now pulling it to pieces in an
absent-minded way.

"Well?" asked Jeanne, smiling; "how does he love you?"

Bijou lifted her pretty head in surprise.

"Whom do you mean?"

"The one about whom you were questioning that daisy?"

"I don't know! I was not questioning it about anyone in particular."

"And what did it answer you?"

"Passionately."

"Oh, well, it was answering about everybody." And Jeanne added, as she
mounted the little flight of stone steps just behind her friend: "It's
quite true; everybody loves you; and you deserve to be loved--there!"

When the two girls entered the room where everyone was assembled,
their arrival seemed to have the effect of bringing some animation
into the faces of all the people.

"At last, and not before it was time!" murmured Henry de Bracieux, in
a way which caused his grandmother to glance at him, whilst M. de
Clagny stepped quickly forward to meet Bijou.

"That's right," she said pleasantly; "how good of you to come again so
soon to see us!"

"Too good! You'll have too much of me before long!"

"Never!" she answered, smiling merrily; and then taking Jeanne's hand,
she introduced her. "Jeanne Dubuisson--my best friend--whom I shall
lose now, because she is going to be married!"

"But why do you say that, Bijou?" exclaimed the young girl
reproachfully. "You know very well that, married or not married, I
shall always be your friend."

"Yes--everyone says that; but it isn't the same thing! When one is
married one does not belong to one's parents or friends any more, one
belongs to one's husband--and to him alone."

"How delightful such delusions are!" murmured M. de Clagny.

Bijou turned towards him abruptly.

"What did you say?" she asked.

"Oh, it was just nonsense!"

"No; I quite understand that you were laughing at me. Yes, I
understand perfectly well; it's no good shaking your head, I know all
the same that you were making fun of me, because I said that when one
is married one belongs only to one's husband! Well, that may be very
ridiculous, but it is my idea, and I believe it is M. Spiegel's, too?"

The young man smiled and nodded without answering.

"Has anyone introduced M. Spiegel?" continued Bijou, still addressing
the count. "No? well, then, I will repair such negligence. Monsieur
Spiegel, Jeanne's _fiance_, who does not dare to support me, and
declare that I am right, because he is not in the majority here; there
is no one here who is married but himself--that is to say, nearly
married."

"Oh, indeed, and what about Paul?" asked the marchioness, laughing.

"Paul! Oh, yes, that's true; I was not thinking of him! Anyhow, the
unmarried persons are in the majority--Henry, Pierrot, Monsieur
Courteil, M. Giraud, Jean--well, what's the matter with Jean? he does
look queer!"

Jean de Blaye was seated in an arm-chair, with his eyes half-closed
and his head resting on his hand, looking very drowsy.

"I have a headache!" he answered; and then, as Bijou persisted, and
wanted to know what had given him a headache, he exclaimed gruffly:
"Well, what do you want me to say? It's a headache; how can I tell
what's given it me? It comes itself how it likes--that's all I know!"

Bijou had gone behind the arm-chair in which her cousin was lounging.

"You must have a very, very bad headache to look as you do," she said,
not at all discouraged by his abrupt manner, and noticing his pale
face, his drawn features, and his eyes, with dark circles round them,
"and for you to own, too, that there is anything the matter with you;
because you always set up for being so strong and well. Poor Jean, I
do wish you could get rid of it."

She bent forward, and pressing her lips gently on the young man's
weary eyelids, remained like that a few seconds.

Jean de Blaye turned pale, and then very red, and rose hastily from
his chair.

"You startled me," he said, in an embarrassed way, not knowing where
to look, "how stupid I am; but I did not see you were so near, so you
quite surprised me."

M. de Clagny had risen, too, in an excited way on seeing Bijou kiss
her cousin. It occurred to him though, at once, how very ridiculous
his jealousy would appear, and he sat down again, saying in a jesting
tone:

"Well, if that remedy does not take effect, de Blaye's case is
incurable."

M. de Rueille looked enviously at Jean, who was just going out of the
drawing-room, and then, turning to Bijou, he remarked, in a hoarse
voice:

"When I have a headache, and, unfortunately, that is very often, you
are not so compassionate."

M. Giraud remained petrified in the little low chair in which he had
taken his seat. His eyes were fixed on the ground, and his lips
pressed closely together; he looked as though he had seen nothing.

As for Pierrot, he exclaimed candidly:

"What a lucky beggar that Jean is!"

"Undoubtedly, undoubtedly," replied Abbe Courteil, with conviction;
"but, all the same, he certainly has a very bad headache--Monsieur de
Blaye. I know what it is to have a headache."

The marchioness bent forward to whisper to Bertrade, whilst looking
all the time at Bijou.

"Isn't she sweet, that child, and so good-hearted, and, above all, so
natural. Did you see how innocently she kissed that simpleton of a
Jean, and how it startled him?"

"Oh! as to startling him! he was rather upset by it, poor fellow, and
he wanted to explain away the fact that he was upset by it; that is
about all."

"Do you think so? with him, one never knows."

"You did not notice that he went off at once, without even saying
good-bye to M. Dubuisson and M. Spiegel, who are just going away."

The marchioness turned towards the two men in question, who were just
coming across to take leave.

"As we are keeping your Jeanne," she said, "I hope you will often come
to see her."

"Are you quite sure that you don't mind staying at Bracieux?" Bijou
asked her friend; "I shall not be angry with you, you know, for
preferring your _fiance_ to me."

"Spiegel is obliged to go to Paris for a few days," said M. Dubuisson;
"on his return I shall come with him to fetch Jeanne back."

       *       *       *       *       *

On leaving the drawing-room, a few minutes before, Jean de Blaye had
felt thoroughly wretched. Bijou's innocent kiss, given so openly
before everyone, had, as a matter of fact, thoroughly upset him
rousing again the love which he felt for the young girl, and which he
had hoped would remain dormant, since Madame de Nezel was ready to
console him with her affection.

Only the evening before he had said to the young widow: "How can I
love that child as I love you?" and when he had uttered these words,
he had, for the time being, felt his old love for Madame de Nezel
returning, and it had seemed to him that Bijou could never inspire the
same passion as he had felt for this woman. And now, after hoping that
he had conquered his love for the young girl, her kiss had completely
undone him, and left him helpless to struggle against himself any
longer.

He felt now that from henceforth he ought not to continue to claim
Madame de Nezel's affection, since he could no longer return it; and
as he thought of all that this affection had been to him in the past,
he suffered intensely. For the last four years this woman had loved
him with a devotion that had known no bounds, and, whilst Madame de
Bracieux, M. de Jonzac, the Rueilles, and, indeed, all his family, had
imagined that he was living a very gay life, he had been spending his
time peacefully and happily in the society of Madame de Nezel.

They had understood each other perfectly, and no one had suspected
anything of the sympathy which had thus drawn them together, so that
Jean had always been criticised for those actions of his which were
known to the world, and he had been perfectly satisfied that things
should be thus. Now, however, all would be changed. He would have to
give up this peaceful happiness which had been so much to him.

And why should he, after all? Did he intend to tell Bijou of his love
for her? And even supposing that she did not reject his love, was he
in a position to marry this fragile and exquisite girl, who had
certainly been created for the most luxurious surroundings?

He had already thought it all over many times and had said to himself,
over and over again, that it would be absurdly foolish. Then, too,
Bijou would never love him well enough to accept him with his
extremely moderate income. As he had promised Madame de Nezel to meet
her the following day at Pont-sur-Loire, he wrote her a few lines in
order to excuse himself.

"She will not believe the pretext I have given her," he said to
himself, as he sealed the letter "but she will quite understand, and,
now, it is all over between us."

And then all at once a feeling of utter loneliness came over him, and
a vision of the life that would from henceforth be his rose before him
with strange distinctness. He shuddered in spite of himself, and then
he fell to going over again in his mind all his sorrows.

In the meantime, Bijou had shown Jeanne Dubuisson to the room she was
to occupy during her visit to the chateau.

"It is your imagination, I tell you; nothing but your imagination,"
she said to her friend. "He does like me, certainly, but just in the
way one cares for a cousin, or even a sister."

"No! It was quite enough to look at his face when he went out of the
drawing-room. He was quite upset, and I am sure he has not got over it
yet."

"Wouldn't you like me to go and ask him? But, there, it is seven
o'clock. We have only just time to dress. I will come back for you
when the first dinner-bell rings."

When Bijou came out of her bedroom, simply but charmingly dressed, as
usual, the long landing was dark and silent. The servants had drawn
the blinds, but had not yet lighted the lamps.

Jean, who was coming out of his room, could just distinguish, in the
darkness, a few yards away from him, a figure in a light dress. He
hurried up to it, and Bijou asked:

"Is that you, Jean?"

"Yes," he answered; "and I want a word with you."

"Something that won't take long? The first bell has gone."

"Something very short; but I should prefer no one else hearing."

"Shall we go into your room, then, or into mine?"

"Into yours, as we are so near it."

Bijou opened the door, and, when Blaye was inside, she said:

"Wait a minute. Don't move, or I shall knock against you. I will
light--"

"Oh, it isn't worth getting a light," he said, catching hold of her
arm to stop her. "I can say what I have to without that. Besides, it
won't take long. I want to tell you, Bijou, my dear, that what you
did, you know, just now--"

She appeared to be trying to remember.

"Just now? Whatever was it I did?"

"Well, in a very nice way--oh! in a very nice way, indeed, you
know--you kissed me, but you are too grown-up to do that now when
there are people there."

"And when there isn't anyone there?" she asked, laughing, "may I
then--tell me?"

Before he had time to reply, she had laid her hands on his shoulder,
and lifted her face towards his. He bent his head at the same moment,
and her lips touched his. Bijou gave a little half-timid murmur of
affection, which moved him deeply.

He made up his mind now to tell her of his love, and tried to draw her
to him; but the young girl pushed back the hands which were
endeavouring to hold her, and ran out of the room, and, by the rustle
of her dress along the wall, Jean knew that she was hurrying away.




X.


THE following day Mere Rafut arrived. Bijou had expected to have her
for a week, and was very much disappointed when the old woman told her
that she could only give her five days, as the theatre opened again on
the first of September, and she would have to be there at her post as
dresser.

Jeanne, therefore, proposed to help with the work, and Bijou accepted
her offer.

"That's a capital idea!" she said; "if we are both together we shall
not be dull! we can talk to each other without troubling about Mere
Rafut."

Accordingly, every day, whilst the marchioness and Madame de Rueille
were doing what Jean de Blaye called "a visiting tour," the two young
girls installed themselves in Bijou's boudoir, which was converted
into a sewing-room, and were soon busy with their cutting out and
sewing, whilst chattering together, too intent on their conversation
to pay much attention to the old sewing-woman.

"Are you going to the race-ball?" Bijou asked her friend.

"Yes," said Jeanne; "it seems that as I am now engaged it is not quite
the thing; but I am going all the same, as Franz wants to see me
arrayed in my ball-dress, and he wants to waltz with me, too; he
waltzes very well, you know."

"Ah! and yet he looks so austere? Tell me, don't you mind in the least
marrying a Protestant?"

"Not in the least! without being bigoted, I am a thorough Catholic,
and he is a devoted Protestant, but not bigoted either. We shall each
of us keep to our own religion, for we have no wish whatever to
change; but neither of us has any idea of trying to convert the
other."

Bijou did not speak, and Jeanne continued:

"I am not at all sorry that I am going to have a husband who is a
Protestant, and I will confess that, for certain things, I feel more
satisfied that it should be so. It's quite true, what you were saying
yesterday--Protestants have certain ideas about the family, and about
constancy; in fact, they have stricter principles about such things
than Catholics."

"Yes; tell me, though, what dress are you going to wear for the race
ball?"

"I don't know yet! I haven't one for it!"

"Why, how's that? what about the white one with the little bunches of
flowers all over it?"

"Papa does not think it is nice enough; the race ball is to be at the
Tourvilles, you know, this year; and it will all be very grand!"

"Oh, yes!"

"We do not know them at all; it will be the first time of our going to
Tourville, and if I were to be dressed anyhow, it would not be very
nice for your grandmamma, who got us invited; and so papa told me to
have a dress made, and he gave me two pounds."

"What are you going to have made?"

"I don't know at all; advise me, will you?"

For the last minute or two Bijou had seemed to be turning something
over in her mind.

"If you like," she said at last, "we might be dressed in the same way,
you and I; that would be awfully nice!"

"What is your dress?"

"My dress does not exist yet; it is a thing of the future! It will be
pink, of course--pink crepe--quite simple--straight skirts, cut like a
ballet-dancer's skirts, so that there will be no hem to make them
heavy, three skirts, one over the other, all of the same length, of
course--three, that makes it cloudy-looking; more than that smothers
you up; and it will fall in large, round _godets_. Then there will be
a little gathered bodice, very simple; little puffed sleeves, with a
lot of ribbon bows and ends hanging, and then ribbon round the waist,
with two long bows and long ends--ribbon as wide as your hand, not any
wider.'

"It will be pretty."

"And it would suit you wonderfully well."

"But shouldn't you mind my being dressed like you?" asked Jeanne,
rather timidly.

"On the contrary, I should love it! Would you like us to make the
dress here? I would try it on, and like that we should be sure that it
was right."

"How sweet you are! Plenty of other girls in your place would only
trouble about themselves."

"Listen, supposing you wrote for the crepe to be sent to-morrow." And
then she added laughing, "M. de Bernes asked me yesterday evening if I
had not any commissions for Pont-sur-Loire. I might have given him
that to do!"

"He would have been slightly embarrassed."

"Why? It is easy enough to buy pink crepe with a pattern."

Mere Rafut, who had been busy sewing, without uttering a word, but
just pulling her needle through the work with a quick regular
movement, now lifted her face, all wrinkled like an old apple, and
remarked drily:

"And even without!"

"Without what?" asked Bijou.

"Without a pattern. Oh, no, it isn't he who'd be embarrassed! Why, he
always helps to choose Mademoiselle Lisette Renaud's dresses."

"Lisette Renaud, the singer?" asked Jeanne eagerly, whilst Denyse,
very much taken up with her work, did not appear to have heard.

"No, mademoiselle, the actress."

"Well, that's what I meant. Ah! and so M. de Bernes knows her?"

The old sewing-woman smiled.

"I should just think he does. He's known her more than a year and a
half."

"Ah!" said Jeanne, evidently interested, "she is so pretty, Lisette
Renaud! I saw her in _Mignon_ and in the _Dragons de Villars_ too."

"Oh, yes!" said Mere Rafut, "she is pretty, too, and as good as she is
pretty! If you only knew!"

"Good?" repeated Jeanne, "but--"

"Ah, yes! For sure, she isn't a young lady like you, mademoiselle! But
ever since she has known M. de Bernes, I can tell you, she won't look
at anyone else. And he's the same, as far as that goes, and that's
saying a good deal, for, nice-looking as he is, there's plenty of
ladies after him, ladies in the best society, too, in officers'
families; and they do say the Prefect's wife admires him! Oh, my, he
doesn't care a snap for them all, though! He's got no eyes for anyone
but Lisette; but you should see him when he's looking at her--it's
pretty sure that if he was an officer of high rank he'd marry her
straight off, and he'd be quite right, too--"

"Jeanne!" interrupted Bijou, "that's the first bell for luncheon." And
when they were out of the room she said, in a very gentle voice, with
just a shade of reproach: "Why do you let Mere Rafut tell you things
you ought not to listen to?"

"Oh, goodness!" cried Jeanne, blushing and looking confused, "her
story wasn't so very dreadful; and then, even if it had been, how do
you think I could help her telling it?"

"Oh! that's easy enough, the only thing to do is not to reply or pay
any attention; you would see that she would soon stop."

"Yes, you are right," and throwing her arms round Bijou, Jeanne kissed
her.

"You are always right," she said; "and I, although I look so serious,
am much more thoughtless than you, and much weaker-minded, too; I
never can resist listening if it is anything that interests me."

"And did that interest you?"

"Very much, indeed."

"Good heavens! what could you find interesting in it all?"

"Well, I don't exactly know; I was curious to hear about it, in the
first place, and then I always notice everything, and this little
story explained exactly something I had observed."

"When?"

"Why, during the last four or five months, ever since I have begun
going out a little."

"What had you observed?"

"I had observed that M. de Bernes never pays attention to any woman,
that he never even looks at anyone, that he scarcely takes the trouble
to be pleasant, even with the prettiest girls; and the proof of all
this is, that he has not tried to flirt with you even."

"Oh, not at all," answered Bijou, laughing; "but just because he has
not tried to flirt with me, you must not conclude that with others."

"No, Mere Rafut must be right, and, after all, I am not at all
surprised about it--this story, I mean; you have no idea how charming
she is, this Lisette Renaud. Something in your style; she is much
taller than you, though, and not so fair; but she has the most
wonderful eyes, and a lovely, graceful figure, almost as graceful as
yours; in short, I can quite understand that, when anyone does care
for her, they would care for her in earnest; then, added to all that,
she has a great deal of talent and a beautiful voice--a contralto. I
am sure you would like her."

"I don't think so."

"Why?"

"I don't like women who act comedy--those who act well, at least; it
denotes a kind of duplicity."

"Oh, I don't think so; it denotes a faculty of assimilation, a very
sensitive nature, but not duplicity."

"I can't help it, my dear, but I do not see things in the same light
as you; still, that does not prevent Mademoiselle--what is her name?"

"Lisette Renaud."

"Mademoiselle Lisette Renaud from being an exception, and she may be a
very charming creature; for my part, I only hope that is so for the
sake of M. de Bernes."

"You don't care much for him, do you?" asked Jeanne.

"What makes you think that?--he is quite indifferent to me, and I
always look upon him as being just like everyone else."

"Oh, no; that is not true--I see him pretty often at Pont-sur-Loire;
he is very intelligent, and very nice, and then, too, very
good-looking; don't you think so?"

"I assure you that I have never paid much attention to M. de Bernes
and his appearance," and then Bijou added, laughing: "The very first
time I see him, I will look at him with all my eyes, and I will
endeavour to discover his perfections to please M. de Clagny."

"You like him very much, don't you--M. de Clagny?"

"Oh, yes, indeed I do."

"I noticed that at once; ever since my arrival you have only talked of
him; and yesterday, when he came, you were delighted."

"Yes, he is so good, and so kind to me."

"But everyone is kind to you, everyone adores you."

"Everyone is much too good and too indulgent, as far as I am
concerned; I know that very well; but M. de Clagny is better still
than the others. I have only known him three days, and now I could not
do without him. Whenever I see him, I feel gay and happy at once; and
I wish he were always here. I'll tell you what--I should like to have
a father or an uncle like him. Doesn't he make the same kind of
impression on 

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