But M. de la Rochaiguë's bewilderment was by no means at an end.

The baron had fully expected to find the unseen auditors of the foregoing conversation in a state of intense consternation over M. Olivier's refusal.

Far from it.

Mlle. de Beaumesnil and Herminie, clasped in each other's arms, were laughing and crying and kissing each other in a transport of half delirious joy.

"He refused me! He refused me!" exclaimed Ernestine, in accents of ineffable delight.

"Ah, I told you that M. Olivier would not disappoint our expectations, my dear Ernestine," added Herminie.

"Wasn't I right? Didn't I tell you that he would refuse?" cried the marquis, no less delighted.

"Then why the devil did you make such a fuss about gaining my consent?" demanded the baron, forgetting his dignity in his thorough exasperation. "Why did both of you insist upon my making that young idiot such an unheard-of proposal, if you wanted him to refuse it?"

These words seemed to recall Ernestine to the fact of the baron's existence, for, releasing herself from her friend's arms, she turned a radiant face towards her guardian, and exclaimed, in tones of the most profound gratitude:

"Oh, thank you, monsieur, thank you! I shall owe the happiness of my whole life to you, and I assure you, I shall never prove ungrateful."

"But you must have misunderstood him," cried the baron, "he refuses, he refuses, he refuses, I tell you."

"Yes, he refuses," exclaimed Ernestine, ecstatically. "Ah, has he not the noblest of hearts!"

"They have certainly gone mad, every one of them," murmured the poor baron, in despair.

"But this young man is as good as married,—he won't have you! He says nothing would induce him to have you!" he fairly shouted in Ernestine's ear. "His marriage is to take place very shortly."

"Yes, thank God, there is no further obstacle to that marriage now," cried Ernestine, "so I thank you once again, M. de la Rochaiguë. I thank you with all my heart, and I shall never, never forget what you have done for me."

Fortunately the hunchback now came to the rescue of the unfortunate baron, who really felt as if his poor brain was about to burst.

"I promised you the answer to the enigma, you remember, my dear baron," said M. de Maillefort.

"I think it is time, quite time for you to give it, then, marquis. If you do not, I believe I shall go mad. There is a strange buzzing in my ears, my head feels as if it would split, there are specks floating before my eyes—and—"

"Well, then, listen to me. This morning your ward declared that she would not marry anybody but M. Olivier Raymond, and that the happiness of her life depended upon it, did she not?"

"You certainly are not going to begin that all over again?" exclaimed M. de la Rochaiguë, stamping his foot angrily.

"Have a little patience, baron. I told you afterwards that all the good you had heard in relation to M. Olivier Raymond was nothing in comparison with what you would soon discover for yourself."

"Well, what have I discovered?"

"Is the disinterestedness which you yourself were obliged to admire nothing? To refuse the richest heiress in France to fulfil a promise of marriage previously made to a penniless young girl—is not such conduct as that—?"

"Admirable, commendable, worthy of all praise," exclaimed the baron. "I know all that! But I repeat that I shall go stark staring mad if you don't explain why this refusal, which should fill you and my ward with dismay and consternation, seems to delight you beyond measure,—that is, if you are still anxious for Ernestine to marry Olivier."

"I certainly am."

"Well, I'd like to know how you are going to bring it about, for his heart seems to be set upon marrying the other girl."

"And that is precisely what pleases us so much," said the hunchback.

"Delights us, you mean," corrected Ernestine.

"It delights you because he is determined to marry another girl?" exclaimed the baron, positively furious now.

"Yes, but you see this other girl is she!" explained the marquis.

"She—and who is she?" shouted the baron.

"Your ward."

"But the other girl is my ward."

"Certainly," replied Ernestine, triumphantly, "I am the other girl."

"Yes, baron, the other girl, I tell you, is she, your ward."

"Yes, she is Ernestine," added Herminie.

"It is all perfectly clear now, you see," remarked the marquis.

On hearing this explanation, which was even more incomprehensible to him than what had gone before, the unfortunate baron cast a half frantic glance around him, then, closing his eyes, said to the hunchback, in despairing tones:

"M. de Maillefort, you seem to be absolutely pitiless. I have as strong a mind as anybody else, I think, but it is incapable of unravelling such a mystery as this. You promised to give me the answer to this beastly enigma, but the answer is even more incomprehensible than the enigma itself."

"Come, come, my dear baron, calm yourself, and listen to me."

"I have been listening to you for a quarter of an hour or more," groaned the baron, "and yet I am very much worse off than I was in the beginning."

"Well, well, everything shall be made plain now," said the marquis, soothingly.

"Proceed, then, I beg of you."

"Very well, then, these are the facts of the case: Through a combination of circumstances which will be explained later on, and which have no special bearing on the subject now under consideration, your ward met M. Olivier and passed herself off to him as a poor orphan girl, who was supporting herself by her needle. Do you understand thus far, baron?"

"Yes, I understand thus far. What next?"

"Well, by reason of other circumstances with which you will soon be made conversant, your ward and M. Olivier fell in love with each other, he still supposing Mlle. de Beaumesnil to be a friendless and penniless orphan, and so unhappy in her home relations that he felt that he was, and in fact was, exceedingly generous in offering to marry her when he was made an officer."

"In short," exclaimed the baron, straightening himself up to his full height, and speaking in triumphant tones,—"in short, Ernestine and the other young girl are simply one and the same person."

"Precisely," responded the hunchback.

"And so," continued the baron, wiping the perspiration which his Herculean mental efforts had produced from his brow,—"and so you wished to find out if Olivier loved the other, the poor girl, enough to resist, for her sake, the temptation to marry the richest heiress in France?"

"Exactly, baron."

"Hence your romantic story that Mlle. de Beaumesnil had seen Olivier during his stay at the château and had fallen in love with him."

"It was necessary to find some plausible excuse for the proposal you were commissioned to make to him. This story furnished it, and I must say that you played your part admirably. And M. Olivier,—well, was I wrong in assuring you that M. Olivier Raymond was the soul of honour?"

"He is, indeed!" exclaimed the baron. "Listen, marquis. I am not inclined to revert to the past, but I admit that I considered this a very unsuitable marriage for my ward. Ah, well, now I distinctly assert, affirm, and declare that, after what I have just seen and heard, if my ward were my own daughter, I should say to her: 'Marry M. Raymond, by all means. You could not make a better choice.'"

"Ah, monsieur, I shall never forget those words!" cried Ernestine.

"But this is not all, my dear baron."

"What else can there be, pray?" demanded M. de la Rochaiguë, uneasily, evidently fearing a fresh imbroglio.

"This test had a twofold object. M. Olivier's extreme sensitiveness in pecuniary matters is so well known to his friends that we feared when he discovered that the young girl whom he thought so poor was really Mlle. de Beaumesnil, he, being only a young lieutenant without either rank or fortune, would absolutely refuse to marry the richest heiress in France, though he had loved her and asked her to be his wife, when he believed her absolutely penniless."

"Such scruples on his part would not surprise me in the least," said the baron. "The fellow is so proud, the slightest hint that he might be considered a fortune-hunter would infuriate him. And now I think of it, the obstacle you fear still exists."

"No, my dear baron."

"But why not?"

"Why, can't you see?" exclaimed Ernestine, joyously. "M. Olivier has positively refused to marry Mlle. de Beaumesnil, the rich heiress, has he not?"

"Unquestionably," said the baron; "still, I don't understand—"

"But when M. Olivier discovers who I really am, how can he feel any fear of being accused of mercenary motives in marrying me, when he had positively refused to accept the proffered hand of the richest heiress in France?"

"Or, in other words, an income of over three million francs," exclaimed the baron, interrupting his ward. "That is true. The idea is an excellent one. I congratulate you upon it, M. le marquis, and I say, with you, that even if M. Olivier were a thousand times more proud and sensitive, he could not hold out against this argument, viz.: 'You positively refused to accept the three million francs when they were offered you, so your motives are necessarily above suspicion.'"

"And it is impossible for M. Olivier to feel any scruples under these circumstances, do you not think so, monsieur?"

"Most assuredly I do, my dear ward. But this revelation will have to be made to M. Olivier sooner or later, I suppose."

"Of course, and I will attend to it," replied the marquis. "I have a plan. We will talk that over together, by and by, baron, that and certain business matters which young girls understand very little about. Am I not right, my child?" added the marquis, with a smile, turning to Ernestine.

"Perfectly right," answered Mlle. de Beanmesnil, "and whatever you and my guardian may decide, I agree to in advance."

"I need not say, my dear baron, that we must maintain the utmost secrecy in relation to all this until the signing of the marriage contract, which I have my reasons for desiring should precede the publishing of the banns. Day after to-morrow will not be too soon, I suppose. What do you think about it, Ernestine?"

"You can guess my reply, monsieur," answered the young girl, blushing and smiling.

Then she added, hastily:

"But mine will not be the only contract to sign. There is another, isn't there, Herminie?"

"That is for M. de Maillefort to decide," replied Herminie, blushingly.

"I approve most decidedly; but who is to attend to all this rather troublesome business?"

"You, of course, M. de Maillefort. You are so good and kind!" cried Ernestine.

"Besides, have you not proved that nothing is impossible to you?" added Herminie.

"Oh, as for the impossibilities achieved, when I think of the scene at your home this morning, you, my dear child, are the one who deserves praise, not I."

On hearing these words, M. de la Rochaiguë, who had seemed to be hardly aware of Herminie's presence before, turned to her, and said:

"Pardon me, my dear young lady; my attention has been so engrossed by what has just occurred that—"

"M. de la Rochaiguë," said Ernestine, taking Herminie by the hand, "I wish to present to you my dearest friend, or, rather, my sister, for no two sisters could love each other more devotedly than we do."

"But," said the baron, greatly surprised, "if I am not very much mistaken, mademoiselle—mademoiselle is the music teacher we selected for you on account of the extreme delicacy of her conduct in relation to a perfectly just claim upon the Beaumesnil estate."

"You still have some very remarkable things to learn in relation to Mlle. Herminie, my dear baron," said the marquis.

"Indeed? And what are they, may I ask?"

"In the conversation which you and I must have, presently, I will answer your question fully; but now I am sure it will suffice you to know that your ward has placed her friendship as wisely as her love; for I can truly say that the person who would select M. Olivier Raymond for a husband would be certain to select Mlle. Herminie for a friend."

"M. de Maillefort is right," said Mlle. de Beaumesnil, twining her arm affectionately about her friend's waist; "both these greatest blessings came to me the same evening at Madame Herbaut's little party."

"Madame Herbaut's little party!" repeated the baron, opening his eyes wide, in astonishment, "What Madame Herbaut?"

"My dear child, you should be generous, and not give M. de la Rochaiguë any more enigmas to solve this evening," said the hunchback.

"I declare myself utterly incapable of solving them," exclaimed the baron. "My poor brain feels as confused and bewildered as if I had just made a balloon ascension."

"Don't be alarmed, baron," said M. de Maillefort, laughing. "I shall spare your imagination any further flights by soon telling you all there is to tell."

"In that case we will leave you," said Ernestine, smiling. Then she added:

"But I feel it my duty to warn you before I go that Herminie and I have entered into a conspiracy, M. de la Rochaiguë."

"And what is this conspiracy, young ladies?"

"As it is so late, and as I should certainly become quite crazed with joy if I were left entirely alone with my happiness, Herminie has consented to remain with me until to-morrow morning. We shall dine tête-à-tête, and in the happiest of moods, as you may imagine."

"An admirable arrangement, young ladies, for Madame de la Rochaiguë and I have an engagement to dine out this evening," said the baron; "so a pleasant evening to you."

"I shall see you both again to-morrow," said M. de Maillefort. "There are some details which I am sure you will enjoy, that we must discuss together."

The two girls, radiant with delight, returned to Ernestine's apartments, and, after a daintily served dinner,—which they scarcely touched, so absorbed were they in their new-found joy and happiness,—they retired to Ernestine's chamber, to again talk over the strange vicissitudes of their love affairs and of their friendship.

In about a quarter of an hour they were, to their great regret, interrupted by Madame Laîné, who entered the room after having rapped in a deprecating manner.

"What do you want, my dear Laîné?" asked Ernestine, a trifle impatiently.

"I have a favour to ask of mademoiselle."

"What is it?"

"Mademoiselle is perhaps aware that M. le baron and madame are dining out this evening, and that they will not return home until late."

"Yes, what of it?"

"Mlle. Helena, wishing the servants to profit by the leisure evening monsieur's and madame's absence affords them, secured three loges at the Gaîté Theatre this morning, where they are playing 'The Maccabees,' a drama founded on an episode in Bible history."

"And you, too, wish to go, I suppose, my dear Laîné?"

"If mademoiselle will not need me until it is time for her to retire."

"You can have the entire evening, my dear Laîné, and take Thérèse with you, if you choose."

"But what if mademoiselle should need something before our return?"

"Oh, I shall not need anything. Mlle. Herminie and I will wait on each other. Go, and enjoy yourself, by all means, my dear Laîné, and be sure to take Thérèse with you."

"Mademoiselle is very kind. I thank her a thousand times. If mademoiselle should need anything, she has only to ring, however, for Mlle. Helena told Placide to come down so as to be ready to answer mademoiselle's bell if she rang."

"Very well, I will ring for her if I want anything. Good night, my dear Laîné."

The governess bowed and retired, and the two young girls were left almost alone in the big house, all the other inmates of the dwelling having gone out, with the exception of Mlle. Helena de la Rochaiguë and Placide, that lady's personal attendant, who had been instructed to respond to the summons should Mlle. de Beaumesnil ring.

The clock had just struck ten.

It was a dark and stormy night, and the howling of the wind was the only sound that broke the profound silence which pervaded the spacious mansion.

The young girls had been talking for two hours of their sad past and their radiant future, though it seemed to them that the interchange of confidence had scarcely begun.

But suddenly Ernestine paused in the middle of a sentence, and, turning her head in the direction of Madame Laîné's room, seemed to listen attentively.

"What is the matter, Ernestine?" inquired Herminie.

"Nothing, my dear, nothing," replied Mlle. de Beaumesnil, "I was mistaken, of course."

"But what was it?"

"It seemed to me I heard a sound in Madame Laîné's room."

"What a timid little thing you are!" said Herminie. "It was probably some outside shutter rattling in the wind you heard and—"

But Herminie, making a sudden movement of surprise in her turn, quickly turned her head towards the door that separated Ernestine's bedroom from the adjoining parlour, and said:

"How strange, Ernestine! Did you notice—?"

"That some one turned the key in that door."

Without replying, Herminie ran to the door and turned the knob.

Further doubt was impossible. Some one had, indeed, locked the door on the outside.

"Great Heavens! what does this mean?" whispered Ernestine, really frightened now. "And all the servants are out. Ah, fortunately, Placide, one of Mlle. Helena's maids remained at home."

And rushing to the bell-rope, Mlle. de Beaumesnil pulled it violently several times.

Meanwhile Herminie had recalled the vague uneasiness the marquis had shown that afternoon when he alluded to the intimacy between Ravil and Macreuse, but though she was considerably alarmed herself she did not wish to increase Ernestine's terror, so she said:

"Don't be frightened, my dear; the person you rang for can explain what surprises you so much, probably."

"But she doesn't come, and this is the third time I have rung for her!" exclaimed Mlle. de Beaumesnil.

Then, trembling like a leaf, she added, in a whisper, pointing this time to the door which separated her chamber from Madame Laîné's':

"Listen. Oh, my God! don't you hear somebody walking about in there?"

Herminie made her a reassuring gesture, but Mlle. de Beaumesnil, after listening again for an instant, exclaimed with even greater terror:

"Herminie, I tell you I hear some one moving about! They are coming towards the door. Listen!"

"We'll push the bolt and fasten ourselves in," said Herminie, promptly, hastening towards the door.

But just as the young girl was about to place her hand on the bolt, the door suddenly opened, and M. de Macreuse entered the room.

On seeing him, Herminie uttered a cry and sprang back, while this model young man, turning towards some one who had remained in the next room, exclaimed, in accents of amazement and baffled rage:

"Hell! she is not alone! All is lost!"

On hearing these words, a second intruder appeared.

It was Ravil.

And at the sight of Herminie, he cried, in a no less surprised and angry tone:

"Damnation! that girl here!"

Herminie and Ernestine had retreated to the farther end of the room, and there, clasped in each other's arms as if to afford each other mutual support, they stood, paralysed with fright, and unable to utter a word.

Macreuse and Ravil, at first astounded, and then infuriated by the unexpected presence of Herminie, which seemed likely to ruin their plans, also stood silent and motionless for a moment, gazing inquiringly at each other as if to read in each other's faces what they had better do under such unforeseen circumstances.

The two girls, in spite of their terror, had noted the exclamations of astonishment and dismay which had escaped both Macreuse and his accomplice on finding that Mlle. de Beaumesnil was not alone, as they had anticipated.

The two girls had also noticed the state of consternation in which the founder of the St. Polycarpe mission and his accomplice had been momentarily plunged.

Both these observations served to restore a little courage to the sisters, and, reason coming to their aid, they finally came to the conclusion that together they were as strong as they would have been helpless had either of them found herself at the mercy of these wretches, alone.

So Mlle. de Beaumesnil, realising how great was the danger from which Herminie's presence had saved her, exclaimed, with a tenderness and gratitude which proved the intensity of her anxiety and dread:

"See, Herminie, Heaven has again sent you to act as my protector! But for you I should be lost."

"Courage, my dear, courage!" whispered the duchess. "See how disconcerted the scoundrels look!"

"You are right, Herminie! Such a blissful day as this has been to us can not be spoiled! I have a blind confidence in our star now."

Cheered by this brief interchange of whispered words, the orphans, strengthened, too, by the thought of the radiant future before them, gradually recovered their composure, and at last Ernestine, addressing Macreuse and his accomplice, said, bravely:

"You will not succeed in terrifying us. The first shock is over and your audacity arouses only disdain. In a short time the servants will return, and you will be put out of the house as disgracefully as you entered it."

"It is true we may be compelled to endure your presence for awhile," added Herminie, with bitter scorn; "but in spite of our contempt and aversion, Mlle. de Beaumesnil and I have both been subjected to more severe ordeals."

"What a courageous man you are, M. de Macreuse, to steal at night, with an accomplice, into the room of a young girl you believe to be alone, in order to secure a cowardly revenge for the humiliation that M. de Maillefort, who knows you, inflicted upon you in public!" added Ernestine.

Macreuse and Ravil listened to these sarcasms in silence, interchanging wrathful looks the while.

"My dear Herminie," resumed Mlle. de Beaumesnil, whose countenance was gradually regaining its accustomed serenity, "I may seem very silly to you, and it may be that the great happiness we have experienced to-day has upset me a little, but really all this seems so utterly absurd and ridiculous to me that I can scarcely help laughing."

"I, too, must admit that it seems ridiculous, and even grotesque, to me."

"The discomfiture of these scoundrels is really pitiable," remarked Mlle. de Beaumesnil, bursting into a hearty laugh this time.

"The impotent rage of these conspirators, who excite mirth rather than fear, is extremely amusing," chimed in Herminie, no less gaily.

In fact, the bewilderment of these two scoundrels, who did not consider themselves in the least subjects for mirth, was so ludicrous that the orphans, either because their happiness had, indeed, made them bold, or because they were really brave enough to face this danger unflinchingly, gave way to another burst of feverish, vindictive gaiety,—feverish, because the two girls were naturally excited by the very strangeness of the situation, vindictive, because they were fully conscious of the disappointment and exasperation they were causing Macreuse and Ravil.

The intruders, momentarily disconcerted by the unexpected presence of Herminie, and by the strange hilarity of the young girls, soon began to recover their assurance.

Macreuse, whose drawn features were assuming a more and more threatening expression, whispered a few words in Ravil's ear, whereupon that worthy hastily stepped to the only window in the room, and slipped a small steel chain around the fastening, thus effectually closing the window as well as the inside shutters, and then united the two ends of the chain with a padlock.

This done, it was impossible, of course, to open either the window or shutters from the inside and call for help.

The two girls thus found themselves at the mercy of Macreuse and De Ravil.

The door leading into the sitting-room had been locked on the other side by Mlle. Helena's maid, for it is needless to say that this saintly creature and her attendant were Macreuse's accomplices, but both were ignorant that Herminie was still with Mlle. de Beaumesnil.

While Ravil was thus engaged, Macreuse, whose countenance expressed the most execrable sentiments, folded his arms upon his breast, and said, with portentous calmness:

"My first plan has failed by reason of the presence of this accursed creature (indicating Herminie by a gesture). I am frank, you see. But I have ingenuity in plenty, and a devoted friend. You are both in our power. We have two hours at our disposal, and I will convince you that I am not a person to be laughed at long."

These threats, as well as the tone and expression of the man that made them, were rendered even more terrifying by the solitude and entirely defenceless position in which the two girls found themselves; but if tragical things are once viewed in a ridiculous light, anything that increases the horror of them likewise seems to increase the laughter of the beholder, which soon becomes irrepressible.

Macreuse's threats produced this very effect upon the two young girls, for, unfortunately, as he spoke he made an involuntary movement that caused his hat to slip far back on his head, and this, in spite of his threatening, almost ferocious expression, gave such an odd appearance to his rather broad face that the two girls burst into a fresh fit of merriment.

Then came the accomplice's turn.

The girls had watched Ravil's manœuvre with even more curiosity than alarm, but when the time came to pass the hasp of the padlock through the last links of the chain, Ravil, who was a little near-sighted, did not succeed at first, and stamped his foot violently in his anger and impatience.

This elicited another such paroxysm of nervous laughter from the two girls that Macreuse and his accomplice, amazed, then as deeply exasperated as if they had been slapped in the face, in the presence of a hundred witnesses, lost their heads, and, quite carried away with ferocious rage, sprang towards the young girls, and seized them savagely by the arm.

As they did so, Macreuse, his face livid, his eyes haggard, and positively foaming at the mouth with rage, but with his unfortunate hat still on the back of his head, exclaimed:

"Have we got to kill you to frighten you?"

"Alas! it is not our fault," said Ernestine, bursting into another fit of laughter at the sight of this alike terrible and grotesque figure. "You can only kill us—with laughter."

And Herminie chimed in.

Infuriated beyond expression, there is no knowing to what violence the two villains might have resorted, but at that very instant the door leading into the sitting-room—the door which had been locked on the outside—was suddenly opened, and M. de Maillefort, accompanied by Gerald, burst into the room, exclaiming, in a voice full of anxiety and alarm:

"Have no fears, my children; here we are!"

But judge of the newcomers' astonishment. Both had rushed in, pale and terrified, like persons who had come to rescue a friend from some great danger. And what did they behold?

Two young girls with brilliant colour, sparkling eyes, and bosoms heaving with laughter, while Macreuse and Ravil stood pale with rage and motionless with terror at this unexpected interference.

For an instant the marquis attributed this strange hilarity on the part of the two girls to hysteria, caused by intense fright, but he was speedily reassured by Ernestine, who said:

"Forgive this extraordinary gaiety, my dear M. de Maillefort, but such a strange thing has happened. These two men entered the house by that back stairway I told you about—"

"Yes," said the marquis, turning to Herminie; "the key—this morning—you remember, my child. My presentiments did not deceive me, it seems."

"I must admit that we were terribly frightened at first," replied Herminie, "but when we saw the rage and disappointment of these men, who had expected to find Ernestine alone—"

"And their consternation was so ludicrous," added Mlle. de Beaumesnil, "and we felt so perfectly safe, being together, that what had seemed so terrible at first began—"

"To appear positively ludicrous," added Herminie.

"But just as you came in M. de Macreuse was talking of killing us to cure us of our inclination to laugh," remarked Ernestine.

"Did any one ever see the like of them?" the marquis exclaimed, admiringly, turning to Gerald. "Are they not as brave as they are charming?"

"I admire their courage as much as you do," replied Gerald, "but when I think of the shameful audacity of these scoundrels, whom I hardly dare to look at for fear I shall not be able to control myself and so trample them under my feet, I—"

"Nonsense, my dear Gerald, nonsense!" exclaimed the marquis. "Gentlemen do not touch carrion like that even with their feet. The criminal court will attend to them now."

And turning to the model young man and to Ravil, who had summoned up all their assurance with the evident intention of braving the storm, the hunchback said:

"M. de Macreuse, since your sudden intimacy with M. de Ravil began, knowing what you were both capable of, I have had you closely watched."

"A system of espionage, eh?" said Macreuse, with a haughty smile. "I am not surprised."

"Yes, of espionage," retorted the hunchback. "This morning I happened to see you in a locksmith's. You were showing a key to him, and this excited my suspicions. I consequently redoubled my vigilance, and this evening you and your companion were followed here by two of my men. One of those men remained by the door which he had just seen you open with a false key. The other ran to inform me, and I, in turn, sent him to summon the police, who must be waiting for you this very minute at the foot of the stairway by which you effected an entrance here. They will speedily give you and your worthy friend some idea of the annoyance to which persons who enter an occupied house at night by the aid of false keys expose themselves."

On hearing this announcement, Macreuse and Ravil gave a violent start, and looked at each other, their faces livid with fear.

"You are pretty certain to be sent to the galleys, I think," continued the hunchback, coolly. "But M. de Macreuse can play the part of St. Vincent de Paul there, and excite the admiration of his red-capped colleagues by his Christian virtues."

The sound of footsteps was heard in the room of Mlle. de Beaumesnil's governess.

"The commissioner of police has taken the trouble to come for you, as you don't seem inclined to go down," remarked the marquis. "It is certainly very kind in him."

The door opened almost at that very instant, and a commissioner of police, followed by several members of the force, entered, and said to Macreuse and Ravil:

"I arrest you in the name of the law, and I shall now proceed in your presence to draw up an official report of the criminating facts in the case."

"Come, my dear children," said the marquis to Ernestine and Herminie, "let us leave these gentlemen to attend to their own affairs while we go up to Madame de la Rochaiguë's apartments to await the return of your guardian."

"The testimony of these young ladies will be indispensable, M. le marquis," said the commissioner, "and I shall do myself the honour to call upon them for it presently."

An hour afterwards, the founder of the St. Polycarpe Mission and his accomplice were both placed in prison, to answer to the charge of having entered an occupied house at night by means of false keys, and of having attempted to intimidate the inmates by threats and violence.

On the return of the baron and baroness, it was decided that Ernestine and Herminie should share Madame de la Rochaiguë's room the rest of the night.

As the hunchback took leave of the young girls, he smilingly remarked to them:

"I have accomplished a good deal since I last saw you. The marriage contracts are drawn up, and they will be signed at Herminie's home at seven o'clock to-morrow evening."

"At my home? How glad I am!" said the duchess.

"Is it not always customary to sign the contract at the house of the bride?" asked the marquis. "And as you and Ernestine are so devoted to each other that you are almost the same as sisters—"

"Exactly the same as sisters, you mean."

"It is only proper that Ernestine's marriage contract should be signed at the home of her elder sister."

So all the next day, Herminie, radiant with happiness, was making important preparations in her pretty, dainty room for the signing of the marriage contracts of the richest heiress in France, and of the adopted daughter of M. le Marquis de Maillefort, Prince Duc de Haut-Martel,—an adoption of which the poor musician had not as yet the slightest suspicion.

Herminie was not the only person who was busily engaged in preparations for the signing of these contracts.

A joyous excitement pervaded a modest little home in the Batignolles, also.

Commander Bernard, Gerald, and Olivier had insisted upon dining together that evening under the same arbour where the opening scene of this story had occurred several months before.

At the conclusion of the repast all three were to repair to Herminie's for the signing of the marriage contract.

A superb autumn afternoon had favoured the realisation of this project, and Madame Barbançon had surpassed herself in her culinary achievements.

Notified in advance this time, she had tended with the utmost solicitude a triumphant pot au feu, which was to be followed by some juicy cutlets, a fine roast chicken, and a boiled custard, where the snowy whites of the eggs floated in immaculate whiteness upon a rich vanilla cream.

Poor Madame Barbançon considered this decidedly commonplace menu the ne plus ultra of culinary magnificence.

But, alas! in spite of the excellence of the repast, the three guests did little honour to it. Joy had deprived them of their appetites, and the worthy housekeeper, in her disappointment, could not help comparing this disheartening indifference with the zest with which Gerald and Olivier had devoured two helpings of her hastily improvised vinaigrette several months before.

Madame Barbançon had just removed the fowl almost untouched, and as she placed the snow custard on the table, she muttered between her teeth:

"They'll clean this dish sure. One doesn't have to be hungry to eat this. It is the very food for lovers."

"The devil! Mother Barbançon," said the commander, gaily, "here's a dish that reminds me of the snow-banks of Newfoundland. What a pity it is that none of us are the least bit hungry!"

"It is, indeed, for Madame Barbançon has proved herself to be a veritable cordon bleu to-day," remarked Gerald.

"It is the finest snow custard that was ever concocted," added Olivier. "We can at least devour it with our eyes."

The housekeeper, who could not believe that she was to be subjected to this last cruel affront, said, in constrained tones:

"You gentlemen must be jesting."

"Jesting about such a sacred thing as your snow custard, Mother Barbançon? The devil take me if I should dare to be as sacrilegious as all that," said the commander. "But as we're not in the least hungry, it is impossible for us to taste your chef-d'œuvre."

"Yes, absolutely impossible," repeated the two young men.

The housekeeper did not utter a word, but a sudden contraction of her features betrayed the violence of her resentment plainly enough.

Seizing a soup plate, she emptied nearly half the contents of the dish into it; then, placing it in front of the astonished commander, said, in tones of authority:

"You—you will eat it, monsieur."

"But listen, Mother Barbançon—"

"It is no use to 'Mother Barbançon' me. This is only the second time in ten years that I have had occasion to make a snow custard. I made this in honour of M. Olivier's and M. Gerald's marriages. There are no 'ifs' and 'buts' about it; you are going to eat it."

The unfortunate veteran, seeing only hostile faces around him,—for Gerald and Olivier, the traitors, pretended to uphold the housekeeper,—attempted a compromise.

"All right. I will eat it to-morrow, Mother Barbançon," he said.

"As if a snow custard would keep until to-morrow!" retorted the housekeeper, shrugging her shoulders. "You're going to eat it now, this minute."

"I won't do anything of the kind," exclaimed the veteran, testily. "I'm not going to kill myself for anybody."

"Kill yourself with a snow custard made by me!" exclaimed the housekeeper, as sadly and reproachfully as if her employer had mortally insulted her. "Ah, me! I little expected—after ten years of faithful service—and on such—such a happy day—the day when M. Olivier is to take a wife—to find myself—treated—like—this."

And the worthy woman began to sob violently.

"What on earth is the woman crying about?" exclaimed the veteran, in despair. "You are crazy, my dear woman! Upon my word of honour, you must be crazy!"

"Kill you! Ah, I shall not forget those words for many a long year, I can tell you."

"Oh, come, come now! I'll eat the—Look, don't you see that I am eating it now?" said the unfortunate commander, hastily swallowing a few spoonfuls. "It is delicious, divine, this custard of yours. Are you satisfied now?"

"Yes, monsieur; yes, that satisfies me," said the housekeeper, drying her tears. "It was a nice custard. I said to myself while I was stirring it, 'I certainly must give my recipe to M. Olivier's little wife.' I must, mustn't I, M. Olivier?"

"Of course you must, Madame Barbançon, for Mlle. Ernestine is going to prove a model housekeeper, I'm sure."

"And the grand pickles I'll teach her to make,—green as grass and crisp as hazelnuts. Oh, you shall see what nice little dishes we will fix up for you, your little wife and I."

Gerald, to whom M. de Maillefort had been obliged to confide the secret of Mlle. de Beaumesnil's masquerade, could not help laughing heartily at the idea of Madame Barbançon giving her cooking recipes to the richest heiress in France.

"What are you laughing at, M. Gerald?" asked the housekeeper. "Have you no confidence in my recipes?"

"I believe in them as I believe in the gospels. I am laughing just because I am so happy, I suppose. That is only natural, I imagine, on one's marriage day."

"There have been monsters who were more ferocious than ever on their marriage day," responded Madame Barbançon, with a gloomy and profoundly mysterious air.

"Nonsense!"

"Think, M. Gerald. Don't you recollect how he conducted himself on the day of his marriage with Marie Louise?—the scoundrel!"

Madame Barbançon evidently thought it entirely superfluous to mention the object of her execration by name.

"Come, Mother Barbançon, you had better give us our coffee now," interposed the commander. "It is nearly six o'clock."

"Well, monsieur, that wretch whom you admire so much, on the day of his marriage with Marie Louise, behaved more cruelly than any tiger to that darling little King of Rome, who, clasping his tiny hands, pleaded in his fresh, sweet voice: 'Papa Emperor, do not desert poor Mamma Josephine.'"

"Oh, yes, yes; I remember it very well," replied Gerald, with wonderful sang-froid. "You are speaking of the King of Rome, Josephine's son."

"Certainly, M. Gerald; there were no other children. But, after all, that is nothing in comparison to what the wretch had the audacity to do to the Holy Father, on the very steps of the altar at Notre-Dame."

"What was it he did? I have forgotten."

"It seems," began Madame Barbançon, sententiously, "it seems that at coronations the Pope always takes the crown and places it on the head of the monarch he is crowning. You can imagine how much this must have angered your Bû-û-onaparte, who was already in a huff because he had had to kiss the Pope's toe in the middle of the Carrousel, before those swaggering guards of his. But he kissed it, the scoundrel! He had to. If he hadn't, the petit homme rouge, who was against Roustan, and for the pope, would have wrung his neck that very night."

"The Pope's?" asked Gerald.

"Roustan's?" inquired Olivier.

"No, no, gentlemen, not theirs, but Bû-û-onaparte's. Still, no matter about that. What I was going to say was that when the Holy Father was about to crown him, what did that Corsican ogre you are so fond of do—like the low common grocer that he was—but grab the crown from the hands of the poor Holy Father and put it on his head with one hand, while with the other he gave the Holy Father a sound rap on the skull, as if to say to the French people: 'Down with religion, the clergy, and all! It is only to me you must bow the knee.' It was such a blow that he gave the poor Holy Father that he reeled and fell headlong on the steps of the altar with his cap down over his eyes, and there he gave thanks in Latin, that angel of a man! This goes to prove, M. Olivier," added the housekeeper, as a sort of conclusion and moral, "that marriage only renders Corsican ogres still more ferocious, while I am sure your and M. Gerald's marriage to such dear girls as your sweethearts must be will only make you still more kind and amiable."

And the worthy woman hurried off to bring the coffee and serve it while Commander Bernard filled his big Kummer pipe.

The hilarity caused by Madame Barbançon's story soon gave place to graver and nobler thoughts.

"In spite of her peculiarities, this good woman is right in reminding us that our marriage ought to increase whatever good we have in us," remarked Gerald. "I hardly see how it can fail to do so, do you, Olivier?"

Then perceiving that his friend had fallen into a sort of reverie, Gerald laid a hand affectionately on his shoulder and asked:

"What are you thinking about, Olivier?"

"I was thinking, my dear Gerald, that it was while we were seated at this table, just six months ago, that I spoke to you for the first time about the charming girl everybody here called the duchess, and that you replied: 'Duchesses, don't talk to me of duchesses. I've had enough of them!' and now, thanks to you, she is a real duchess, the Duchesse de Senneterre. How strangely things come about in this world of ours!"

"You are right, my dear boys," said the old naval officer, "and when the present is all that one can desire, it is very pleasant to look back upon the past. Six months ago, for example, who would have guessed that my brave Olivier would now be on the eve of marrying a dear, sweet girl who had saved my life at the risk of her own?"

"And who ever would have supposed that the Mlle. de Beaumesnil we talked so much about, and upon whom I had matrimonial designs myself, would ever have fallen in love with Olivier?" added Gerald, with a keen look at his friend.

"Oh, don't say any more about that foolish affair, Gerald. It was a mere whim on the part of a spoiled child,—a whim that is probably forgotten even now."

"You are mistaken, Olivier," replied Gerald, gravely. "I have seen Mlle. de Beaumesnil and talked with her, and though she is no older than your Ernestine, she is not a spoiled or capricious child by any means, but a young woman full of good sense and discernment."

"My opinion is that Mlle. de Beaumesnil is at least a young lady of excellent taste, as she was so much pleased with my Olivier," exclaimed the commander, gaily. "But it was too late; the fortress had already surrendered to our dear little Ernestine, who isn't overburdened with money, it is true, but who has the very bravest and noblest heart in the world."

"You are right, uncle," replied Olivier. "The fortress had surrendered, surrendered unconditionally, but even if I had not—"

"What do you mean?" asked Gerald, looking at his friend rather anxiously. "If your affections had been fancy free, wouldn't you have married Mlle. de Beaumesnil?"

"You're mad, Gerald; of course I wouldn't."

"But why?"

"Do you remember what you said here, at this very table, a few months ago: that when an immensely wealthy man marries an attractive girl because she is charming and worthy of him nobody disapproves of it; but that when a man who has nothing, marries a woman who brings him an enormous fortune, it is disgraceful. Those were almost his very words, were they not, uncle?"

"Undoubtedly."

"One moment," exclaimed Gerald, unable to control his growing anxiety, "you should also recall the arguments you yourself used, Olivier, to overcome my scruples on the subject of Mlle. de Beaumesnil: if, in spite of her immense fortune, it is evident that you love this young lady as much as you would have loved her had she been poor and obscure, the most suspicious person could not disapprove of such a marriage. Wasn't that what Olivier said, commander, and didn't you agree with him?"

"That is true, M. Gerald; and I am sure nothing could be more just and reasonable, but, thank Heaven, we have no such delicate question to deal with in this instance. Olivier only acted like any other honourable man in refusing to make a wealthy marriage because he loved elsewhere; it was all perfectly natural, it seems to me. I am sure neither you nor I ought to be at all surprised, for you are making a love match as well as Olivier."

"A love match! That is the very word for it!" exclaimed the young officer, enthusiastically. "Ernestine is as gentle and kind as she is ingenuous; and then the dear girl is so grateful that a fine gentleman like myself should be generous enough to marry her!" added Olivier, smiling. "Ah, if you only knew what a charming letter she wrote me yesterday, telling me that her relative consented to everything, and that, if my intentions had not changed, the marriage contract could be signed to-day. You cannot imagine anything more artless, and yet more exquisitely modest and touching than this letter. It proves Ernestine to be the very person I judged her to be from her countenance."

"I have never seen a more attractive face according to my ideas," said the old officer.

"Is it not, my dear uncle? Her features are not so remarkably regular, it is true, but what a gentle expression she has, and what a charming smile, with her little white teeth. And then what superb chestnut hair she has, and such a slender waist and such a pretty little hand, and the tiniest foot imaginable!"

"Olivier, my boy," said the old officer, pulling out his watch, "you are so engaged in enumerating your sweetheart's charms, that you forget it is almost time to join her, to say nothing of the fact that M. Gerald must have time to go home for his mother so as to take her with him to Mlle. Herminie's house."

"We shall have plenty of time, commander," said Gerald, "but I cannot tell you how delighted I am to see Olivier so deeply in love with his Ernestine."

"Deeply in love, unquestionably, my dear Gerald, to say nothing of the fact that I love her all the more devotedly because she is your dear Herminie's most intimate friend."

"Really, Olivier, it is enough to turn one's head completely, to think of so much happiness and felicity, after so many obstacles and difficulties! Come, my friend, my brother,—for is it not almost as if we were marrying two sisters, or they were marrying two brothers; upon my word, the tears come to my eyes in spite of me, when I think of it!—come, embrace me here before we start. We should look too absurd doing it before all the grand relatives!"

And the two young men embraced each other with fraternal tenderness, while Commander Bernard, anxious to maintain his dignity as a grand relative, tried to conceal his emotion by puffing away lustily at his pipe; after which, Gerald left in hot haste to escort his mother to Herminie's.

Olivier and his uncle were about to start themselves, when they were stopped by Madame Barbançon, who advanced towards them with measured steps, holding on the palms of her extended hands, for fear of soiling it, a superb white cravat starched to the last degree of stiffness and folded ready for wear.

"What the deuce is that, Mother Barbançon?" asked the veteran, who had already picked up his hat and cane, preparatory to departure.

"It is a cravat I have made for you, monsieur," said the worthy housekeeper,—"a little surprise I ventured upon, as you have nothing but your black cravat to wear on this happy day—and—I—I thought that—"

And the worthy woman, quite overcome with excitement and emotion, burst into tears, unable to finish the sentence.

The old officer, though he positively loathed the idea of swathing his neck in this uncomfortable affair, was so deeply touched by this attention on the part of his housekeeper that his voice trembled with emotion, as he replied:

"Why, Mother Barbançon, Mother Barbançon, what extravagance! I really ought to scold you well."

"See, there is a J and a B for Jacques Bernard, embroidered in each corner," said the housekeeper, calling attention to this decoration with manifest pride.

"True, there are my initials. See, Olivier!" said the good man, delighted with this attention.

"Why, my dear, good woman, you have no idea what pleasure, what great pleasure you have given me!" he added.

"Oh, thank you, monsieur," replied Madame Barbançon, as deeply touched and as joyfully as if she had received the most generous reward.

"But it is getting late," she added. "Look, it is half past six. Quick, monsieur, let me put it on for you."

"Put what on, Mother Barbançon?"

"Why, the cravat, monsieur."

"On me? The deuce take me, if—"

But a meaning look from Olivier made the old officer realise how much chagrin he would cause the worthy housekeeper by refusing to don her gift.

On the other hand, the good man had never worn a white cravat in his life, and fairly shuddered at the idea of such a piece of neck-gear.

But his natural kindness of heart conquered, and, smothering a sigh, he yielded his neck to Madame Barbançon, saying, in order to complete his exclamation in a manner that would be more flattering to his housekeeper:

"I meant to say, the deuce take me if I refuse, Mother Barbançon, but it is much too fine for me."

"Nothing can be too fine for such an occasion as this, monsieur," said the housekeeper, carefully adjusting the cravat. "It is a great pity that you haven't something better to wear than that old blue coat you've had at least seven years, but with your cross of the Legion of Honour and this handsome cravat,"—pulling out the ends of the cravat until they looked like two immense rabbits' ears, and then eying her work complacently,—"you have no cause to blush for your appearance. Ah, monsieur," she added, stepping back a little to see the effect better, "it makes you look twenty years younger, doesn't it, M. Olivier? Besides, it is so—so stylish—it makes you look like a notary, indeed it does."

The poor commander, with his neck imprisoned in the huge cravat that reached up to the middle of his cheeks, turned and looked in the little mirror that hung over the mantel in his bedroom, and it must be confessed that the effect was really very becoming.

"It's a pity it prevents me from turning my head," he said to himself, "but, as Mother Barbançon says, it is rather becoming—and decidedly professional looking," he added, with just the least bit of foppishness.

And the old officer passed his hand rather complacently through his thick white hair.

"Come, uncle, it is quarter of seven," said Olivier, with all a lover's impatience, "and quite time we were off."

"Very well, my boy, we will start at once. Give me my hat and cane, Mother Barbançon," said the old officer, not daring to look either to the right or left, for fear of disarranging the wonderful rabbit-eared bow.

The evening was superb, and the distance from the Batignolles to the Rue de Monceau very short, so the commander and Olivier proceeded modestly on foot to Herminie's home.

Fortunately the exercise this involved softened the rigid folds of the commander's cravat a little, and though he may have looked a little less imposing when he reached his destination, this fact did not impair in the least the noble expression of his honest, manly face.

On the very evening that the two marriage contracts were to be signed, M. Bouffard, the owner of the house that sheltered Herminie, his pianist, as he had styled her ever since the young girl began giving lessons to his daughter,—M. Bouffard came after dinner to make his usual tour of inspection, for rent day was close at hand.

He reached the house about half-past six in the evening, and seated himself in Madame Moufflon's room to question her in regard to the supposed financial condition of the tenants, and to ascertain if any of them showed signs of uneasiness as the dread moment approached.

"Why, no, M. Bouffard. I can't say that any of them do," replied Madame Moufflon, "that is, except the new tenant on the third floor."

"Well, what about him?" inquired M. Bouffard, anxiously.

"When he came here, three months ago, he was as pompous as a lord, but in proportion as rent day approaches, he is becoming polite, distressingly polite to me."

"I shall have to watch the fellow closely, then, Madame Moufflon, that is a very bad sign. Ah, what a pity it is that that handsome young fellow who paid my pianist's rent didn't take to those rooms on the third floor. He wouldn't have—"

M. Bouffard never finished the sentence, for there came two or three such violent knocks at the porte-cochère that Madame Moufflon and her employer both bounded out of their chairs.

"Well, well, who is it that knocks as I, the owner of the house, would not think of knocking?" exclaimed M. Bouffard. "Let me see who this ill-mannered fellow is," added M. Bouffard, stepping to the door, as the portress pulled the rope.

"The doors, please!" cried a stentorian voice, thus announcing that both doors of the porte-cochère must be opened to admit a carriage.

M. Bouffard and the portress, amazed at this unheard-of demand, stood as if petrified on seeing a tall powdered footman, attired in a bright blue livery trimmed with silver braid, emerge from the shadow.

"Open both doors, quick!" said this liveried giant, authoritatively.

M. Bouffard was so overcome that he bowed low to the lackey.

"Will you never get the doors open? This is outrageous! The prince is waiting—"

"The prince!" gasped M. Bouffard, with another even more profound bow to the footman.

Just then another no less imperious blow of the knocker resounded.

Madame Moufflon drew the cord with an automatic movement exactly as before, and again a voice cried from under the archway:

"Both doors, please!"

And another footman, clad in green and gold livery this time, stepped up to the door of the porter's lodge, at which an acquaintance must have been standing, for he exclaimed:

"What, Lorrain, is that you? I just saw your master's carriage. What's the matter here? Why don't they open the doors? Are the porter and portress asleep?"

"One would think they had glass eyes. Look at them, they don't move."

"And it is madame la duchesse they're keeping waiting. She never gets impatient, oh, no!"

"Madame la duchesse!" repeated M. Bouffard, more and more astounded, but still motionless.

"Mille tonnerres! will you open the doors sometime to-night?" demanded one of the footmen.

"But who do you wish to see?" asked M. Bouffard, awakening from his stupor.

"Mlle. Herminie," said the tallest lackey, with an evident respect for the person his master was about to visit.

"Yes, Mlle. Herminie," replied the other.

"The small door to the left, under the archway," said the portress, more and more amazed. "I'll open the doors at once."

"A prince and a duchess, visiting my pianist!" gasped M. Bouffard.

Soon came another knocking, much more gentle this time, and another footman in brown livery, with blue trimmings, came to complete the assemblage of lackeys, exclaiming:

"Is everybody stone-deaf here? The doors, why don't you open the doors, I say?"

M. Bouffard, desperate now, resolved to play a heroic part, so, while the portress was tidying herself up a little so as to usher in Herminie's aristocratic visitors, the ex-grocer rushed out to open the double doors of the porte-cochère. This menial task performed, he had barely time to draw back close to the wall to prevent himself from being crushed by the broad breasts of two superb gray horses attached to an elegant dark blue coupé that dashed in, and, skilfully guided by a tall coachman, stopped short at a sign from one of the footmen, who had stationed himself at Herminie's door.

A hunchback and a stout man, both dressed in black, alighted from this handsome equipage, and Madame Moufflon made haste to announce to M. Bouffard's pianist:

"M. le Prince Duc de Haut-Martel."

"M. Leroi, notary."

The first carriage had hardly left the door before a handsome landau drove up.

Two ladies and a young man descended from this vehicle, and Madame Moufflon, who thought she must be dreaming, announced to M. Bouffard's pianist:

"Madame la Duchesse de Senneterre."

"Mlle. Berthe de Senneterre."

"M. le Duc de Senneterre."

An elegant brougham having followed these carriages, another guest alighted, and Madame Moufflon announced:

"M. le Baron de la Rochaiguë."

A few minutes afterwards the portress ushered into Mlle. Herminie's apartment the following less pretentious personages:

"Commander Bernard."

"M. Olivier Raymond."

"Mlle. Ernestine Vert-Puis."

"Madame Laîné."

These last two persons had come in a modest cab.

These duties performed, Madame Moufflon rejoined her employer, who was pacing vehemently to and fro, under the porte-cochère,—his forehead covered with big drops of sweat, so intense was his excitement,—saying to himself:

"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! What can these great lords and ladies be doing in my pianist's room? What do you suppose all this means, Mother Moufflon?"

"I don't know what to think,—my brain fairly whirls. I see stars, and I'm so afraid of a stroke of apoplexy, I'm going to put my head under the water spigot to cool it off."

"I have it!" suddenly exclaimed the ex-grocer, triumphantly. "My pianist is giving a concert."

"I don't think so, for the last time I looked in I saw the ladies had laid their wraps on the piano, which was closed, and the entire company was standing in a row, while a notary—"

"What notary? Is there a notary here?"

"Yes, monsieur, the tall, stout man,—with a stomach twice as big as yours. I announced him as 'M. Leroi, notary.' Well, he was seated at Mlle. Herminie's table, with a pile of papers in front of him, and a candle on each side—like a juggler."

"Perhaps he is one," exclaimed M. Bouffard, "or, possibly, a fortune teller."

"But, as I told you just now, I announced him as a notary."

"True, true! Oh, well, I will stay awhile, and perhaps I shall be able to find out something when they leave."

Such a brilliant assemblage had never honoured Herminie's modest little home before, and the young girl experienced the liveliest satisfaction and happiness at this unexpected dénouement of a love that had seemed so hopeless. But the pleasure of welcoming Mlle. Berthe de Senneterre, Gerald's sister, and the eldest daughter of the duchess, filled her cup of joy to overflowing.