The Chateau of Montplaisir

THE next day at twelve o’clock was the hour fixed for the signing of the papers making legal the adoption, by Monsieur de Latour, of Louis, and transferring to Louis’s credit three hundred thousand francs in the Bank of France. All of the guests of the Chateau of Montplaisir were invited to assemble in the grand saloon to witness this important affair. The notary, with his clerk, arrived, the papers were brought out and examined, and Monsieur de Latour, with a gold pen, a pompous air, and a great flourish, signed his name. This was followed by Louis, who took the occasion to make a graceful speech of thanks to Monsieur de Latour, and to assure all present that he felt it an honour to be related to so upright and enterprising a citizen. Monsieur de Latour replied affectionately, and then, luncheon being served, hosts and guests drank to the health of the new head of the house of De Latour.

Monsieur de Latour was indeed a happy man. He had been officially made a gentleman, and he considered three hundred thousand francs a very small price to pay for the honour.

All were in high spirits, and even Mademoiselle Cheri forebore to utter some of those plain and rather unpleasing truths with which she had occasionally prodded Monsieur de Latour.

The ladies, after luncheon, retired for their siesta, the party arranging to meet on the terrace, as usual, at five o’clock for tea. Then Monsieur de Latour said to Louis:

“Now, my dear nephew, come with me into the grand saloon, and let us talk over our future arrangements, and I should be obliged to you, Mademoiselle de Courcey, if you will come, too, as I may need your services as amanuensis.”

“Certainly,” replied Julie, “but first let me go and curl my hair. This damp climate takes all the curl out.”

Monsieur de Latour was a little annoyed at this, especially in the presence of Mademoiselle Cheri, who said nothing but saw everything. However, it would be a bold man who would refuse permission to a young lady to curl her hair, and so Monsieur de Latour merely asked Julie’s presence as soon as convenient.

In the grand saloon he unlocked the escritoire in which the papers had been stowed, and taking them out began to go over them for the second time with Louis. All at once Monsieur de Latour started and turned pale.

“Why, look here,” he said, “I didn’t notice this before, but instead of me, Victor Louis de Latour, adopting you, Louis Victor de Latour, here I see—” At this point Monsieur de Latour stopped, paled, and with a shaking finger pointed to the impressive legal paper with its great seals.

And there, sure enough, as plain as print, Louis Victor de Latour had adopted Victor Louis de Latour. Louis examined the paper carefully and laid it down. Monsieur de Latour, running his hands frantically through his scanty hair, cried out:

“It is all the work of that good-for-nothing Julie, who is now upstairs curling her hair. Well, it will have to be changed—that’s all. The fact is, she has never yet written a letter or prepared a document for me that she has not got one word wrong. But she is so devilish pretty and so fascinating and such a delightful little scamp altogether that there is no being angry with her. However, I shall give her a good scolding for this, and the work will all have to be done over again.”

Louis during all this had sat calmly examining the papers spread out before him. His silence aroused Monsieur de Latour’s suspicions.

“Of course,” cried the old soap-boiler, advancing and mopping his brow, “you see the necessity for undoing this nonsensical performance. You being my uncle, indeed!”

“I don’t know about that,” replied Louis coolly. “First let me ask you one question. Are you really in love with Mademoiselle Julie?”

The query staggered Monsieur de Latour, and he sat down quickly, as if some one had hit him a blow on the forehead.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “I don’t know whether I am or not, but one thing is certain—I intend to have the benefit of her society. It has occurred to me several times in the last few days that you were paying Mademoiselle de Courcey rather more attention than was necessary, and it was distinctly displeasing to me.”

“That settles it,” replied Louis gravely. “These papers stand. I cannot forego the honour of being uncle to such a nephew as yourself. I am proud of you, my dear Victor.”

Here Louis rose and patted Monsieur de Latour patronisingly on the back.

“It is not your money that I desire—that you are more than welcome to—but to say to the world that I have such a nephew as yourself gives me the highest pleasure.”

“Go to the devil!” bawled Monsieur de Latour, jumping up. “You are the most impudent, presumptuous dog I ever saw in my life. I your nephew, indeed!”

“But I thought you wanted to appear young so as to win favour, perhaps, in Mademoiselle Julie’s eyes.”

“So I do, but not so infernally and ridiculously young as you would make me appear.”

“Not at all. I might have a brother forty years older than myself, and you might be that brother’s son.”

“And I might elope with my great-grandfather’s sister-in-law,” bellowed Monsieur de Latour, “but we are not talking about such things as that. What I mean to say is that this ridiculous mistake must be rectified. I am willing to adopt you as my nephew—in fact, I am rather pleased to be related to you, because I have learned to like you in spite of your assaults upon my ribs. I am willing to be your uncle, but I am not willing to be your nephew.”

“My dear boy, the thing is done. It is signed, sealed, and delivered. You are my nephew, and you can’t help yourself. And remember that the arrangement carries with it the authority of a parent—for example, you cannot marry anybody without my consent. Our laws, you know, are very specific on that point.”

“Oh, yes, I know, but you are talking nonsense!”

“Am I? Then try to contravene my authority and see what will happen!”

Monsieur de Latour glared at Louis. And just then the door opened and Julie entered, looking, if possible, prettier than ever.

“Now,” she said to Monsieur de Latour, “I am ready to do anything you ask me—that is, for half an hour, when I expect the dressmaker—then I shall have to leave you.”

“Certainly,” answered Monsieur de Latour, laughing sardonically. “Between the hairdresser and the dressmaker, you may occasionally condescend to assist me. Thank you very much, mademoiselle. I am indebted to you, I think, for the present piece of work.”

He got up and, in his wrath taking Julie sternly by the arm, pointed with an accusing finger at the document.

“Do you see,” he thundered, “that through that little peculiarity of yours by which you always get one word wrong——”

“But only one word, monsieur, and then always a very small one.”

“Yes, I know, but big enough to do the business. Here you see that instead of Victor Louis de Latour adopting Louis Victor de Latour, it is completely turned around, and this young scapegrace has adopted me. Do you understand?”

In his rage Monsieur de Latour’s voice had risen to a roar, but Julie, glancing at the paper and then at Louis, burst into a ripple of laughter.

“Oh, how amusing!” she cried. “It is the most delightful thing I ever heard. Did I make that mistake?”

“You did!” shouted Monsieur de Latour, quite forgetting himself and actually shaking Julie’s arm.

“Well, what’s the harm?” she asked, breathless with the shaking and laughing still more. “You are just as much a De Latour of the Chateau of Montplaisir, monsieur, as you ever were. I thought that was the great point.”

Monsieur de Latour flung her into a chair as if she had been a parcel, and strode up and down the room.

“My dear Victor,” said Louis soothingly, “compose yourself. Have confidence in me, your uncle, and believe that everything that I shall do will be with an eye for your advantage. If you should require me to give back the three hundred thousand francs——”

“Oh, yes, give them back, indeed!” bawled Monsieur de Latour, going and standing before Louis. “You can afford to give them back because you practically have the control of all my property.”

“I sha’n’t interfere with that, my boy,” replied Louis. “I think you know how to manage your money matters very much better than I do. It is only your personal conduct in which I shall concern myself, and, by the way, I think it would be best for you to dispense with Mademoiselle de Courcey’s services as private secretary.”

“What have you to do with my private secretary?”

“Everything. I am your legal guardian, and I cannot allow you to continue what I thought from the first a very indiscreet arrangement. So, mademoiselle, I shall be pleased myself to engage your services at the same figure my nephew paid you, if you will accept the place.”

“Certainly!” responded Julie, jumping up.

Monsieur de Latour’s rage and chagrin at this was indescribable. He ground his teeth, and his scanty hair appeared actually to bristle with wrath. Meanwhile, Louis was smiling and imperturbable, and Julie was a picture of innocence.

“Only I shall stipulate,” continued Louis gravely, “that you are not to do any writing for me. I can’t take the risk.”

“Sixteen vats of soap spoiled!” interjected Monsieur de Latour, throwing himself into a chair.

“My dear Victor,” said Louis, “would you oblige me by allowing me a few minutes’ private conversation with Mademoiselle Julie?”

“What?” screamed Monsieur de Latour.

“A few minutes’ private conversation is what I ask.”

“Not under any circumstances.”

Monsieur de Latour was so beside himself with rage that he could not keep still, but, jumping up from his chair, bounced about the room.

“Then, mademoiselle,” remarked Louis, “I must ask you to step out with me upon the terrace for a moment.”

“Mademoiselle, I forbid you to go!” cried Monsieur de Latour.

But to this Julie paid no attention whatever, and followed Louis through the glass door that opened on the terrace. Once out in the clear and brilliant sunshine, Louis whispered in her ear:

“Did you do it on purpose?”

And Julie whispered back:

“Yes, yes, yes!”

“And was it because his consent was necessary to your marriage?”

Julie nodded her head and gave Louis her bewitching side glance.

“Very well, he shall remain my nephew until he has consented to our marriage.”

Julie bestowed upon Louis another side glance, a look of overpowering sweetness which ran like wine through Louis’s whole being. Monsieur de Latour, within the room, saw this exchange of tender and vivid glances, and a flood of light poured in upon him. He dashed out upon the terrace, almost knocking them over.

“Oh, I see how it is!” he cried. “You two are in a conspiracy against me. You”—pointing to Louis—“want to marry Mademoiselle de Courcey.”

“Oh, no,” replied Louis, “I want to marry Mademoiselle de Brésac!” And taking Julie’s hand he placed it within his arm.

Slowly the truth dawned upon Monsieur de Latour. He struck his forehead.

“I see it all,” he groaned. “It is a trick. You are Julie de Brésac. Strange I never suspected it before. But that old gadabout, your aunt, put you up to it, no doubt. Very well, all I have to say is that, under your respected father’s will, my consent is necessary to your marriage, and you won’t get that consent to marry my nephew.”

“Your uncle, you mean,” interposed Louis.

“Very well, very well!” cried Monsieur de Latour, walking off, quivering with rage. “You will see how it will turn out.”

Louis followed him.

“Now, my dear nephew,” he said in a pacifying tone, “don’t let us, with guests in the house, have a family row—these things are very bad form. It has never been the custom of the De Latours to do such things, and if you wish to prove yourself a genuine De Latour you must follow the traditions of the house. Now, it isn’t necessary to say how things really stand—I am willing to let you pose as my uncle, provided you show me the respect which is due me. So let us agree to say nothing about this, but I will have no interference between Mademoiselle Julie and myself.”

Monsieur de Latour paused and reflected for a whole minute.

“Perhaps you know,” he said, “that the Comtesse de Beauregard’s consent is necessary, as well as mine, for anyone to marry Julie.”

“I believe so, but that is very easily won. Just let me go on a gigantic lark and the old lady will consent at once.”

“Yes, but suppose she should marry? She might marry me, you know!”

“That will make our relationship still more interesting. You would be my nephew and at the same time you would be my uncle.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. What I mean is that I intend to checkmate you and that head-strong girl yonder.”

“But to marry Madame de Beauregard you would have to lead a very dissipated life, and then I should be in a position to checkmate you. I can exert my authority as your uncle, and put a stop to your wild career on the ground that you are squandering your fortune. I can put you on an allowance of a thousand francs a month. How would you like that?”

“Oh, it’s all a confounded muddle,” cried Monsieur de Latour, “but I intend to block your game, young man, with Julie, and you see if I don’t!”

While this turmoil was taking place in one part of the chateau a like one was occurring in another part of it. Just as luncheon was over General Granier’s card was brought in, and Madame de Beauregard insisted upon the rest of the party going with her to the orangery. There they found General Granier, who began to entertain them with anecdotes of some of his most notorious escapades during the Second Empire, varied with the recital of some startling indiscretions about three months before. His stories were really amusing, and even Mademoiselle Cheri laughed at them; but Mélanie, much scandalised, maintained a shocked silence, and Eugène de Contiac unconsciously did the same.

When General Granier had finished a story of having kissed a dowager duchess in mistake for her daughter-in-law, a story which sent Madame de Beauregard into convulsions of mirth, she suddenly looked around and caught Eugène in the act of handing a book to Mélanie. Madame de Beauregard seized it and read aloud the title, “Sermons and Discourses, by Bossuet.” From screams of laughter the old lady suddenly flew into a temper, and, giving Eugène a smart clip over the head with the book of sermons, she cried wrathfully:

“I will teach you to be reading sermons in good company! And what’s this?”

A sheet of paper fluttered out, which the old lady caught deftly and read aloud:

This was a letter calculated to exasperate a much milder person than Madame de Beauregard, and the old lady, although in general good-tempered, as most old reprobates are, was kindled into wrath. She sat up, whirled around in her chair, rose, and actually danced with rage.

“So you are planning to be pious when I am dead and buried!” she shrieked, shaking the unlucky letter in poor Eugène’s pallid face. “Very well, then, you and your saintly friend here can be pious on nothing at all. You and this sanctimonious minx will unite in prayer for me! Just let me catch you at it—that’s all I ask! Oh, if I had but a man in my family, he should have every franc I possess! Monsieur Bertoux,” she cried, turning to the silent advocate, who saw a good fee staring him in the face for making another will for Madame de Beauregard, “I desire you this minute to make another will for me!”

At this Monsieur Bertoux quietly took out some sheets of legal-looking paper.

“Here, madame,” he said resignedly, “I always keep myself prepared, and I knew when I arrived here yesterday and saw the situation of affairs that I should be called upon to make a will for you before the week was out. Will you, as usual, when you cut Monsieur de Contiac off, give your property to found a hospital for cats and dogs?”

“Yes,” answered Madame de Beauregard promptly, “except one hundred thousand francs to General Granier, as the last man with red blood in him who is left alive in France. He deserves a legacy and he shall have it, for knowing how to enjoy himself as a man should.”

General Granier bowed to the ground and said gallantly:

“I hope, madame, that I shall never come into the possession of that legacy. I should be far more pleased if you would consider the proposition which I have made to you at intervals for the last forty years.” Here the general put his hand to his heart and winked sentimentally at Madame de Beauregard.

“Marry you, you mean?” cried Madame de Beauregard. “Well, I have been considering it for forty years, as you say. But meanwhile I intend to punish my nephew—not that he appears to have a drop of my blood in him—so, Monsieur Bertoux, will you please to come into the grand saloon with me, and we will arrange this matter. And I beg to inform you, mademoiselle,” she added to the shrinking Mélanie, “that you may marry my nephew any time you like, and you will get a pious husband—and I could not desire you any worse punishment, for pious husbands are a terrible bore. I had one myself and I don’t propose to have another of that sort.”

Madame de Beauregard marched off to the saloon, escorted by Monsieur Bertoux and General Granier. Mademoiselle Cheri, Mélanie, and Eugène remained in the orangery. Eugène, like most men who have just lost a half-million francs, looked a little frightened. Not so Mélanie. Extending her hand to him, she said with a kind of timid boldness:

“I care nothing for the fortune you have lost. It is you that I love, and when I feel that you have perhaps secured your eternal salvation by giving up that money, it is in my heart to render thanks for losing it.”

Eugène was scarcely then equal to rendering thanks for the loss of a half-million francs, but he was sincerely in love with Mélanie, and her disinterested affection touched him deeply. And he could tell her with perfect truth, as he did, that any loss of money was trifling so long as he retained her love.

Mademoiselle Cheri, who was the most indulgent person in the world to lovers and children, considerately left the orangery and was walking up and down the terrace, leaving Eugène and Mélanie practically alone under the green shade of the orange-trees. The two stood hand in hand and were forgetful of all the world but themselves. It seemed to them but a few minutes that they were alone together, while it was really a half-hour.

Their Elysian dream was rudely interrupted by Monsieur de Latour bouncing in upon them. Monsieur de Latour had been very much tried that day, and this last straw had brought his wrath to the boiling pitch. So he bawled at the two young culprits:

“Well, I have just seen Madame de Beauregard, and she is having another will made as fast as Monsieur Bertoux can write it, and so you have lost between you by your folly five hundred thousand francs which you could have easily retained.” And then addressing Eugène: “What do a few escapades and a little dissipation matter with half a million francs to be gained by it? But no, you want to thank God that you are better than other men, and you have been rightly served by Madame de Beauregard. All I have to say is that you are to give up immediately any idea you may have of marrying my niece. Half an hour ago you were a very desirable match—now you are not a match in a marriageable sense at all. Mélanie, let go of his hand!”

For as even a dove strives to defend her nest, Mélanie only held on the more to Eugène’s hand.

“Would you have me give him up because he strives to be good and pleases me thereby?” she asked, trembling.

“I certainly should!” roared Monsieur de Latour.

Eugène, not to be less courageous than Mélanie, replied firmly:

“Mademoiselle, although I cannot ask you now to share my poverty, rest assured that I am yours forever.”

“Ah, Eugène,” said Mélanie timidly, “perhaps by waiting— My uncle cannot really mean to separate us, knowing how much we love each other.”

“But I shall separate you!” shouted Monsieur de Latour, “and you will see, young man, whether I do or not.”

At this Louis’s voice was heard over Monsieur de Latour’s shoulder.

“My dear nephew,” he said, “what kind of language is this that you are using? I am simply shocked at you. Would you part two young hearts that beat only for each other?”

“Certainly I would,” angrily responded Monsieur de Latour, wheeling around on Louis.

“Luckily,” remarked Louis coolly, “it is not in your power. Under the articles of my adoption of you as a nephew you cannot do anything of this character without my consent, and I don’t intend to allow you to separate Mademoiselle Mélanie and Monsieur de Contiac.” And then he briefly explained that he had adopted Monsieur de Latour instead of Monsieur de Latour adopting him. Turning to Monsieur de Latour, Louis continued: “The fact is, Victor, you have no experience with the master passion. The love of two young hearts cannot be treated like the boiling soap in a couple of vats. You are dealing with an unknown quantity when you try to control the emotions of the soul. It is fortunate that you are enough under my authority to prevent you from interfering either with Mademoiselle Mélanie’s love-affair or with the tender attachment which I feel for Mademoiselle Julie and which she does me the honour to accept.”

“Do you mean to say, you upstart—?” thundered Monsieur de Latour.

“Come, come, Victor, that kind of language is totally unsuited to our relationship. Remember, you are my nephew.”

“The devil I am! It’s the most arrant nonsense I ever heard in my life.”

“Will you go and ask Monsieur Bertoux what he thinks of it?”

“Oh, I know it’s all legal, but it’s simply maddening! However”—addressing Mélanie and Eugène in a menacing manner—“don’t you two young hypocrites take this gentleman too seriously about this adoption business. First let us see how it will work.”

“I,” said Louis, with much dignity, “advise you, mademoiselle, and you, Monsieur de Contiac, to take it with the utmost seriousness, as I mean to enforce all the rights of my position. And among other things, I apologise for the behaviour of my nephew. You are our joint guests, and I beg you will forget everything that has been said. My nephew has not yet learned the lesson of self-control, but I hope to teach it to him. We shall all have until five o’clock to compose ourselves, and by that time I hope my nephew will have arrived at a better frame of mind. Come, Victor,” and with that he seized Monsieur de Latour by the arm and dragged him off, spluttering:

“It’s maddening, simply maddening!”

Monsieur de Latour, shaking himself free, retired to his own room to ponder over the topsy-turvy condition of affairs. The more he pondered the more puzzling the situation seemed to him. Julie, he realised, was out of his reach, and the vision of a young and pretty girl as his partner for the rest of his life seemed less attractive when he reflected upon the complications that Julie’s youth and inexperience had brought upon him. His association with Madame de Beauregard, and with the persons of high-sounding names to whom she had introduced him, including even the semi-royal duke during that alarming experience in the auto-car, had fostered extremely his natural taste for aristocratic society, and it really seemed to him as if he were throwing himself away if he should marry Mademoiselle Cheri.

Just at that moment he glanced out of his window and saw a superb carriage with a ducal crest upon it turning into the court-yard, and from it descended the semi-royal duke. Madame de Beauregard appeared in person on the terrace to greet her visitor. He was a portly, red-faced old gentleman, apparently of the same vintage as Madame de Beauregard herself.

Monsieur de Latour, watching the scene from his window, felt his chest swell at the thought of entertaining such distinguished guests. It is true that the duke had been upon the auto-car expedition, but Monsieur de Latour had been so frightened on that occasion as they whizzed and banged along that he really remembered very little about the duke.

The conversation of Madame de Beauregard and the duke floated up to Monsieur de Latour’s window, and he could not forbear listening to the clear, gay voices on the terrace.

Madame de Beauregard, who treated dukes and costermongers alike, received this particular duke with great familiarity, and began to pour out to him the story of her grievances against Eugène de Contiac and modern men in general, at which the duke chuckled in a semi-royal way.

“Here,” cried Madame de Beauregard, snapping her bright old eyes, “I am the guest of Monsieur de Latour, a soap-boiling man, but I like him. There is not half as much difference as the world thinks between you people, with sixteen quarterings, and a soap-boiler after he is washed and combed and well dressed. And this old soap-boiler has some spirit in him—I suppose he might be considered quite a desperate character in these milk-and-water days. But he isn’t a patch on you, my dear duke, for example, nor on General Granier, and when you are dead there will be no more men left alive.”

The semi-royal duke grinned, and remarked that he had no intention of dying yet awhile.

“Nor have I!” cried Madame de Beauregard. “I expect to spend the season of 1940 at Dinard. Do you remember, my dear duke, the season of 1860 at Deauville? Oh, they were days then when one lived! We had no rheumatism, we had all our own teeth, and we could go the pace by night as well as by day.”

“My dear madame,” replied the duke, who really had quite a gentlemanly air when he chose, “you are to-day as young in feelings, in energy and in looks as you were in 1860.”

“Oh, you old rogue!” cried Madame de Beauregard, playfully prodding the duke with her fan, “how can you tell such taradiddles? Well, I can’t say that you are as young as you were in 1860, but I will say that you have more life in you than ten young men of to-day.”

Monsieur de Latour, watching and listening from his bedroom window, turned pale. The idea of such language and such prodding applied to any man with a ducal title was bad enough, but to a duke who figured in the Almanach de Gotha!

“There is something in blood, after all,” thought Monsieur de Latour, watching Madame de Beauregard’s ease and sprightliness; “but I believe that woman would chuck an archbishop under the chin, and tweak a cardinal’s ear, if she wanted to.”

The duke, however, who had known Madame de Beauregard for fifty years, settled himself quite comfortably to hear the present generation abused and his own lauded.

“The fact is, madame,” he said, “the young people of the present day are too correct by half.”

“Quite right you are,” replied Madame de Beauregard with emphasis. “Now, there is my nephew, Eugène de Contiac. You know my troubles with that young man. Well, now he is behaving worse than ever. He is in love with the soap-boiler’s niece, who is a shade more pious than Eugène. The minx actually tells him that she will marry him without a franc if he continues pious, and won’t look at him if he doesn’t, even if I give him half a million francs. However, my mind is made up that no godly young man shall get any of my money. In 1860 there weren’t any pious young men, were there, duke?”

Madame de Beauregard rattled on in her shrill, high-pitched voice for the benefit of everybody within half a mile, and Monsieur de Latour, who could not help hearing, listened to the names of princes, kings, and even emperors handled in the most familiar manner, and getting the general impression that in 1860 Madame de Beauregard and the semi-royal duke were engaged in one long, loud, and uproarious romp with half the royal personages in Europe. This was not without its effect on the retired soap-boiler, and his mind returned to the half-formed scheme of marrying the old lady herself. The duke paid a long visit, and by the time he went away the purple dusk was falling.

In spite of the exciting occurrences of the day the whole party met at dinner with outward composure and even gaiety. Monsieur de Latour, however, was considerably annoyed by the tone of paternal authority which Louis adopted toward him, and by the gibes of Madame de Beauregard at the situation which had been reversed.

“So it was that little baggage Julie who did it all?” the old lady chuckled, indicating Julie, who sat at the table and looked as innocent as the cat that had eaten the canary. “To tell you the truth, Monsieur de Latour, I don’t believe she made the mistake in the name through inadvertence. I think that she meant to put you in Monsieur Louis de Latour’s power.”

“But it is preposterous!” burst out Monsieur de Latour.

“If you think so,” replied Louis coolly, “try to break the arrangement and see where you are.”

And then everybody at the table laughed, and Monsieur de Latour, boiling and spluttering with rage, yet had to control himself and smile a ghastly smile.

And so the old lady had countenanced the trick his ward had played upon him! But he still held on to the three hundred thousand francs, and there would be no question of Julie and Louis marrying without it. It seemed to Monsieur de Latour that he had Louis in quite as much of a hole as Louis had him.

The visit of the semi-royal duke made a great impression upon Monsieur de Latour, and he began to consider seriously how he might contrive to marry Madame de Beauregard. He concluded that the best and only way was to enter upon a series of larks of the wildest description, and began to turn over in his mind plans to that effect.

As a preliminary Monsieur de Latour invited the whole party, including Monsieur Bertoux, to remain for the rest of the month at the chateau, and in this Louis cordially concurred, and they all accepted. Madame de Beauregard knew everybody worth knowing at Dinard, and the old lady, in spite of her peculiarities, was much sought after as a person of great consequence. The terrace of the chateau was gay with guests every afternoon at tea time. Mademoiselle Cheri and Mélanie were very well pleased at the opportunity of seeing a phase of society hitherto unknown in their secluded and provincial lives, but Mademoiselle Cheri, unlike Monsieur de Latour, was not in the least overawed by it.

Duchesses, princesses, and countesses, with the gentlemen in their train, came every afternoon, on Madame de Beauregard’s invitation, to the terrace, for the old lady’s idea of life was one long, unintermittent frolic. But Monsieur de Latour was so dazzled by the names of the people, to say nothing of their equipages and servants, that his head was completely turned. To be the head of the house of De Latour had seemed to him, the month before, the acme of distinction, but now he longed to be the Comte de Beauregard, a title which he would acquire if he succeeded in marrying Madame de Beauregard.

The only serious rival he had was General Granier, with his extremely interesting leg and his repertoire of escapades, and his large assortment of delightfully scandalous stories. Monsieur de Latour could in no way pretend to rival him in these particulars. How tame and correct seemed his life at Brionville! He grew positively ashamed of its tameness and correctness, and longed to prove that he had in him the making of a dreadfully dissipated character.

Moreover, he was checked at every turn by Louis, who, with the coolest assumption and most ineffable impudence, undertook to treat him like a schoolboy. It was in vain that he threatened Louis with the loss of the prospective three hundred thousand francs and the promise of withholding consent from Louis’s marriage to Julie. Louis snapped his fingers at the three hundred thousand francs, which he declared to be a mere trifle compared with Julie’s love. And as for the question of Monsieur de Latour’s consent—ah, there was a complication indeed! Louis had studied carefully the legal aspects of his adoption of Monsieur de Latour instead of Monsieur de Latour’s adoption of him, and the threat of attempting to enforce them and compelling Monsieur de Latour to appear in court as his adopted nephew made the old gentleman extremely uncomfortable. Louis absolutely undertook to cut down Monsieur de Latour’s allowance of champagne at dinner and cigars afterward, tried to force him to go to bed at ten o’clock, and urged him to lead as correct a life as that of Eugène de Contiac.

Monsieur de Latour, turning these things over in his mind, determined to make a break for liberty, not only for his own satisfaction but as a means of recommending himself to Madame de Beauregard, and he thought:

“If I can get that milksop of a nephew of hers to come with me and make a man of him, the Comtesse de Beauregard will be sure to look upon me with an eye of favour, and perhaps, as he and Mélanie are determined to be married some time or other, I can secure for him the half-million francs which Madame de Beauregard promises to give him, provided he turns from good to gay. And after all, what Eugène said in that unlucky letter about being as pious as he pleased after Madame de Beauregard is dead and gone is perfectly true, and Mélanie can have that happiness to which every woman aspires—that of reforming a man.”

Filled with these notions Monsieur de Latour, one morning about a fortnight after the arrival of his guests at the chateau, carried off to his bedroom Eugène de Contiac, and, after double-locking the door, seated himself for a confidential interview. Eugène himself had drooped somewhat in spirits, as a man will who has just lost half a million francs. He had begun to consider if there were not some means by which he could get his legacy, have his allowance restored, and still keep on terms with Mélanie, having a fixed determination to become pious again as soon as he dared to be. Monsieur de Latour, surmising what was passing in Eugène’s mind, unfolded a plan to him.

“My dear fellow,” said he, confidentially, “I think you made a mistake in throwing away that half-million francs. It doesn’t seem impossible that you should have your legacy and your allowance restored and marry my niece, for she certainly fancies you—God knows why! Now, Madame de Beauregard can’t live forever.”

“Oh, yes, she will!” groaned Eugène. “She is good for forty years yet. She will live to bury all of us and be skipping around here until she meets the fate of the old lady who died at the age of one hundred and ten of a fall from a cherry-tree.”

“Well,” said Monsieur de Latour, going closer and dropping his voice to a mysterious whisper, “perhaps—ahem!—there are certain secrets of the heart—it’s rather embarrassing to speak of these things—but—it is possible that I may become a candidate for Madame de Beauregard’s hand.”

“Marry her, do you mean?” cried Eugène, falling back in his chair. “Good Heavens! If I were in your place I would rather marry a whole circus than my aunt. Yet she is not a bad woman; but for pure friskiness there never was anything like her.”

“I agree with you perfectly, but I am a little frisky myself. Now, I have a proposition to make to you. Suppose you and I go to Paris for a week with the express purpose of having a little lark of the sort Madame de Beauregard would like. I believe it would certainly end in her restoring your legacy and allowance, and might—ahem!—incline her favourably to listen to the proposition which I am contemplating making her. If only General Granier, with that infernal leg of his, were out of the way! But she seems never tired of listening to stories of what he can do with that leg—shoot rabbits, play cards, and actually play the piano with it. And he eighty years of age if he is a day! That man and Madame de Beauregard have found the fountain of eternal youth and friskiness.”

“But Mélanie?” asked Eugène anxiously. “She is devoted to me now; but if I should spend such a week in Paris as you desire I am sure she would never speak to me.”

“Oh, yes, she would! She would have the pleasure of reforming you again, and that is a joy which a woman cannot repeat too often. No, my dear fellow, don’t think that for a moment. Go down on your knees to Mélanie, tell her you are sorry for what you have done, then—get up and do it again. That’s what women all like.”

There was something enticing to Eugène in all this, and after an hour’s urgent representation he finally consented to make the visit to Paris with Monsieur de Latour. That night at dinner Monsieur de Latour announced their intended excursion.

“And I promise you,” he said significantly to Madame de Beauregard, who sat at his right, “that when we come back we shall have some tales to tell!”

“I do hope so,” piously ejaculated Madame de Beauregard.