ly furnished;
carriers' carts came day after day from Paris, and their contents were
unpacked in the courtyard. Rumors flew about the town as to the beauty
and good taste of the modern or the antique furniture as it was seen
to arrive. The great firm of Odiot and Company sent down a magnificent
service of plate by the mail-coach. Three carriages, a caleche, a coupe,
and a cabriolet arrived, wrapped in straw with as much care as if they
were jewels.

"Monsieur Graslin is going to be married!"

These words were said by every pair of lips in Limoges in the course of
a single evening,--in the salons of the upper classes, in the kitchens,
in the shops, in the streets, in the suburbs, and before long throughout
the whole surrounding country. But to whom? No one could answer. Limoges
had a mystery.

III. MARRIAGE

On the return of old Sauviat Graslin paid his first evening visit at
half-past nine o'clock. Veronique was expecting him, dressed in her blue
silk gown and muslin guimpe, over which fell a collaret made of lawn
with a deep hem. Her hair was simply worn in two smooth bandeaus,
gathered into a Grecian knot at the back of her head. She was seated on
a tapestried chair beside her mother, who occupied a fine armchair with
a carved back, covered with red velvet (evidently the relic of some old
chateau), which stood beside the fireplace. A bright fire blazed on the
hearth. On the chimney-piece, at either side of an antique clock, the
value of which was wholly unknown to the Sauviats, six wax candles in
two brass sconces twisted like vine-shoots, lighted the dark room and
Veronique in all her budding prime. The old mother was wearing her best
gown.

From the silent street, at that tranquil hour, through the soft shadows
of the ancient stairway, Graslin appeared to the modest, artless
Veronique, her mind still dwelling on the sweet ideas which Bernadin de
Saint-Pierre had given her of love.

Graslin, who was short and thin, had thick black hair like the bristles
of a brush, which brought into vigorous relief a face as red as that
of a drunkard emeritus, and covered with suppurating pimples, either
bleeding or about to burst. Without being caused by eczema or scrofula,
these signs of a blood overheated by continual toil, anxiety, and the
lust of business, by wakeful nights, poor food, and a sober life,
seemed to partake of both these diseases. In spite of the advice of his
partners, his clerks, and his physician,