Bijou

"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 château, 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 abbé, 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 fiancé. They were to bring him."

"Yes, that must be it! I say, he doesn't look a very lively sort, your Jeanne's fiancé. 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 château, 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.

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, piqué 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."

Abbé 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 fiancé 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 fiancé 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 château. 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 fêted 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 fiancé 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 Norinière."

"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 fiancé, 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 Abbé 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 fiancé 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 Nézel 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 Nézel 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 Nézel'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 Nézel.

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 Nézel 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 château.

"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.

"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 crêpe—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 crêpe to be sent to-morrow." And then she added laughing, "M. de Bernès 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 crêpe with a pattern."

Mère 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 Bernès 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 Mère 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 Bernès, 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 Mère 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 Bernès 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, Mère 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 Bernès."

"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 Bernès 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 you?"

"Oh, as for me, you know, it would be impossible to imagine myself with any other father than papa. Just as he is I adore him; perhaps to other people he may seem nothing out of the common but you see he is my father; all the same I like M. de Clagny, and he is very nice—he must have been charming."

"I think he still is charming."

The two girls had reached the hall by this time, and Jeanne went to the door.

"How very warm it is," she said, and then, shading her eyes with her hand, she looked out into the avenue. "Why, there's a mail-coach!" she exclaimed. "Whoever would be coming with a mail-coach?"

"M. de Clagny, of course," cried Bijou, rushing out on to the steps in her delight; "he told grandmamma that if he possibly could he should come and ask her to give him some luncheon."

"And he has managed to," remarked M. de Rueille drily, as he, too, approached the hall door; "we've seen a great deal of him these last three days; certainly, he is very devoted to us," he added sarcastically.

The sight of the horses, which were just being pulled up in front of the steps, somewhat appeased him, however.

"By Jove! what horses!" he exclaimed, in admiration, "and he knows how to drive, too; there's no mistake about that, he's a born aristocrat."

After luncheon, Pierrot declared that his foot hurt him just at the end of each toe, and he did not know what it could be.

"I know, though," remarked Jean de Blaye; "his boots are too short."

"Too short!" exclaimed M. de Jonzac, "oh, no, that's impossible"—and then, after a moment's reflection, he added in terror: "unless his feet have got bigger still—"

"Which they probably have," said Jean, laughing; "anyhow, his toes are turned up at the ends and curl back over each other, I am sure; you have only to look at his feet, now, to tell. Look at the lumps in his boots; they look like bags of nuts."

"I must get him some more boots to-day," said M. de Jonzac.

"The best thing, uncle, would be to send him to Pont-sur-Loire to be measured; there's sure to be a decent bootmaker there."

"M. Courteil is going just now to take a letter to the bishop and get an answer to it," remarked Madame de Bracieux; "he might take Pierrot with him."

"Well, then," said Bijou, "they might take our omnibus, so that Jeanne and I could go too; we have some errands to do."

"What are they?" asked the marchioness.

"Well, first, some crêpe—we want some crêpe for Jeanne; and then some pencils and paints that I am short of; in fact, there are a lot of things."

"Would you like me to take you all?" proposed M. de Clagny; "I have some business with a lawyer at Pont-sur-Loire at three o'clock. You could do all your errands, and then I would bring you back; it's on my way to The Norinière."

"Oh, what fun!" exclaimed Bijou, delighted. "I have never been on a mail-coach; you don't mind, grandmamma?"

Madame de Bracieux seemed rather undecided.

"Well, I don't know, Bijou dear; you see at Pont-sur-Loire you will be noticed very much perched up there, and for two young girls I don't know whether it is quite the thing—"

"Oh, grandmamma," protested Bijou, "not the thing! and with M. de Clagny there!"

"Yes, with me," put in the count, with emphasis, his face suddenly clouding over, "there is no danger; I am safe enough."

"Yes, certainly," replied Madame de Bracieux with evident sincerity; "but at Pont-sur-Loire everyone is so fond of gossip and scandal."

"Oh, grandmamma," Bijou said, in a beseeching tone, "don't deprive us of a treat, which you don't see any harm in whatever yourself, just because of the Pont-sur-Loire people, about whom you do not care at all."

"Yes, you are right. Go, then, children, as you want to, for, as you say, there is no harm whatever in amusing yourselves in that way."

"Is there any room for me?" asked M. de Rueille.

"For you, and some more of you," answered M. de Clagny; "we are only six at present."

The marchioness turned towards Bertrade.

"What do you say about going with them to look after the girls?"

Madame de Rueille glanced at her husband, who appeared to be studying the floor attentively at that moment.

"Oh, Paul will look after them very well!"

"I must ask if you would mind not starting before three o'clock?" said Bijou, advancing towards the window, "because there is M. Sylvestre coming to give me my accompaniment lesson; he is just coming up the avenue."

"The poor fellow!" exclaimed the marchioness, glancing out of the window, "he is actually walking in spite of this terrible heat!"

"He always walks, grandmamma."

"Five miles; that is not so tremendous," remarked Henry de Bracieux.

"No, not for you—driving!" said Bijou.

"Well, but when we are out shooting, we do a lot more than that!"

"But you are enjoying yourself when you are out shooting; that's quite different. I know very well that if I could, I should send M. Sylvestre back always in the carriage."

"If you like, we can drive him back to-day," said M. de Clagny.

"I should just think I should like to! You are very good to offer me that, because, you know, he is not very, very handsome—my professor—and he will not be any ornament on your coach!"

"Do you think I care anything about that? I am not snobbish, Bijou; not the least bit snobbish."

"But he isn't bad-looking, this fellow," said Jean de Blaye. "He has very fine eyes; they are wonderfully limpid and soft."

"I never noticed that," answered Bijou, laughing; "but even if they are, they could not be seen very well on the top of a coach. And he is very queerly dressed; he wears clothes that are too small, and which cling to him; and then long hair that is very lank; he looks rather like a drowned rat."

A domestic appeared at this instant to announce that M. Sylvestre had arrived.

"Have you told Josephine?" asked Madame Bracieux.

"Yes, Josephine is there, madame," replied the servant.

Jeanne Dubuisson rose, but Bijou stopped her.

"No, don't come with me," she said; "when I feel that there is anyone listening, that is, anyone beside Josephine, I don't do any good." And then, just as she was going out of the room, she turned round, and added: "At three o'clock I shall appear with my hat—and M. Sylvestre."

When Bijou entered her room, Josephine, the old housekeeper, who had seen two generations of the Bracieux family grow up, was sewing near the window, whilst, in the little room adjoining, the musician was arranging the music-stand, and taking his violin out of the case.

On seeing the young girl, his blue eyes lighted up, and seemed to turn pale against his red face. He was a young man of about twenty-eight years of age, very thin, very awkward, and dressed wretchedly enough; but there was something interesting about his face, an expression that was congenial, and yet, at the same time, told of anxiety and of trouble.

"How warm you are, Monsieur Sylvestre!" said Bijou, as she held out her hand to him; "and they have not brought you anything to drink yet! Josephine!" she called out, as she moved towards the door between the two rooms, "will you tell them to bring—ah, yes, what are they to bring? What will you take, Monsieur Sylvestre?—beer, lemonade, wine, or what? I never remember!"

"Some lemonade, if you please; but you really are too good, mademoiselle, to trouble about me."

"I forgot to buy the music you told me to get when I was at Pont-sur-Loire," said Denyse, interrupting him. "You will scold me."

"Oh! mademoiselle!" he exclaimed, in a scared way, "I scold you?"

"Yes, you! If you do not scold me you ought to. Now, let me see! What are we going to play? Ah! I was forgetting! I am going to ask you if you will begin by accompanying me at the piano; it is just a silly little song I am learning."

"What song is it?"

"'Ay Chiquita'! it is quite grotesque, isn't it? But we have an old friend who adores it, and he asked me to sing it for him."

"Oh! as to that!—'Ay Chiquita'—it isn't so grotesque; but it has been worn out, that's all. Ah!" he added, looking at the music, "you sing it in a higher key. I was wondering, too—"

"Yes, I sing it higher; that makes it more dreadful still. Oh, dear! how I do wish I had a deep voice; they are so lovely—deep voices, but there are none to be heard!"

"They are rare, certainly; but there are some, nevertheless."

"I have never heard one," said Bijou, shaking her head.

"Well, but you might hear one if you liked."

"Where?"

"Why, at the Pont-sur-Loire theatre. Yes, Mademoiselle Lisette Renaud, a young actress, with a great deal of talent, and she is very pretty, too, which is not a drawback, by any means."

"She has a beautiful voice?"

"Very beautiful! I hear her, on an average, three times a week, without reckoning the rehearsals with the orchestra, and, I can assure you, I have never had enough."

"Ah! Do you think she would sing at private houses?"

"Why, certainly! She does sing sometimes at Pont-sur-Loire."

"I will ask grandmamma to have her here. Where does she live?"

"Rue Rabelais. I do not remember the number, but she is very well known."

After a short silence, the professor asked:

"Why should you not go to the theatre to hear her? That would interest you much more."

"Grandmamma would never let me."

"I know, of course, that society people do not go to the Pont-sur-Loire theatre—it is not considered the thing; but there are circumstances,—for instance—in a fortnight from now there is to be a performance for the benefit of disabled soldiers, organised by the Dames de France; everyone will go to that."

"And they will play things that will be all right?"

"Oh! some comic opera or another, and varieties from other things; but I am sure Lisette Renaud will be on the programme, and several times, too. These are the best sort of things that we have at the theatre."

"You are not drinking anything, Monsieur Sylvestre," said Bijou, approaching the tray which had been brought in, and pouring out the lemonade for the young man.

The glass which she passed to him showed the effect of the contact of her hand.

"Are you not still too warm to drink?" she asked. "This lemonade is very cold."

He took the glass with a hand that trembled slightly, and stood there, with his arm stretched out, looking at Bijou with passionate admiration.

"Monsieur Sylvestre," she said, smiling, "a penny for your thoughts."

The young man's face, which was already red, flushed deeper still. He drank his lemonade at a draught, and hurried to the piano.

"Let us begin, mademoiselle! shall we?" he said, and he played the short symphony of the song in a hesitating way, as though his fingers refused to act. This was so noticeable, that Denyse asked him:

"What is the matter with you? you are not in form to-day, at all."

"Oh, it's nothing, mademoiselle; I—it is so warm."

Being rather short-sighted, and never using a lorgnette, Bijou was obliged to bend forward to read the words of the song, and sometimes, in doing so, she touched the professor's hair or shoulder. This served to increase his agitation, and at times he could scarcely see what he was playing, whilst his fingers would slip off the notes.

"Really, you are not at all in form to-day," repeated Bijou, surprised.

"I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, I—I don't know what is the matter with me."

"Nor I either; I can't tell at all," she said, laughing.

He was getting up from the piano, but she begged him to sit down again.

"No! if you don't mind," she said, "I should like to work up two or three old songs."

She began at once to read at sight, bending over in order to see better, whilst the poor young man, who was now pale, did his best to follow her, in spite of the buzzing in his ears and the clamminess of his fingers.

When the lesson was over, Bijou went to fetch her hat, and then came back and put it on at the glass near the piano.

Instead of putting his violin into its case, M. Sylvestre stood watching her as she lifted her arms, and drew her pretty figure up with a graceful swaying movement.

"Be quick!" she said, "we are going to take you back to Pont-sur-Loire, or rather M. de Clagny, one of our friends, is going to take you on his coach." Denyse saw that he did not understand, so she went on to explain: "It's a large carriage, and holds a good number of people."

"Are you going, too?" he asked excitedly.

"I am going, too—yes, Monsieur Sylvestre."

He was just taking from his violin-case a little bunch of forget-me-nots and wild roses, which were already drooping their poor little heads. He held them out timidly to Bijou.

"As I came along, mademoiselle, I—I took the liberty of gathering these flowers for you."

She took them, and after inhaling their perfume for a minute or two, put them into her waistband.

"Thank you so much for having thought of me," she said.

He followed Bijou downstairs, step by step, happy in the present, forgetting all about his poverty, and as he appeared, tripping along behind the young girl, his violin-case in his hand, M. de Clagny turned to Jean de Blaye, and remarked:

"You were right; he has a nice face."

The mail-coach had just appeared in front of the steps when the marchioness called out:

"Bijou! I have a commission for you. Go to Pellerin the bookseller, and ask him—stop—no—send Pierrot here."

"Pierrot," said Denyse, returning to the hall, "grandmamma wants you."

"I'll bet it's some errand to do," remarked the youth, making a grimace, "and errands are not much in my line." And then, whilst Bijou and the others were clambering up on to the coach, he went back to Madame de Bracieux. "You wanted me, aunt?" he said.

"Yes. Will you go to Pellerin's? do you know which is Pellerin's?"

"The book shop."

"Yes. Ask him for a novel of Dumas' for me. It is called 'Le Bâtard de Mauléon.' What are you looking at me for in that bewildered way?"

"Because I have never seen you reading novels, and—"

"You will not see me reading this one either; it is for the curé, I have promised it him. He adores Dumas, and he does not know 'Le Bâtard de Mauléon.' You will remember the title?"

"Yes, aunt."

"You are sure? You would not like me to write it for you?"

"'Tisn't worth while."

"You will forget it!"

"No danger."

He rushed off, looking down on the ground, and then, as he climbed on to the coach, he trod on the feet of various people, nearly smashed M. Sylvestre's violin-case, and excused himself by saying:

"Oh, by Jove! I've nearly done for the little coffin."