Bijou

"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:

"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'œuvre! 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 âge,'" 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 âge.' 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 Staël come in."

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

"Have you found anyone for Madame de Staël?" 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 Staël 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 Staël's rôle; he has scarcely any moustache."

"I?" cried Bracieux. "I act Madame de Staël?"

"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 Staël 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 Staël 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 Staël 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 Staël (to Thomas Vireloque): 'I am Madame de Staël.'

Thomas Vireloque: 'Beg pardon?'

Madame de Staël: 'I am Madame de Staël.'

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 Staël: 'I am Madame de Staël.'

Thomas Vireloque: 'Beg pardon?'

Madame de Staël; 'I am Madame de Staël.'

Thomas Vireloque: 'Beg pardon?'

Madame de Staël; 'I am Madame de Staël.'"

"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 Mæterlinck 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. Abbé 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 Molière, 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 Staël 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.

"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 Bruyère'—you know where it is?"

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

"'La Bruyère'?"

"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 Bruyère' 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 Abbé 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.

"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 Norinière 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 Bernès, who is afraid of meeting his General, and so is always arrayed in his uniform: then the abbé 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.