xclaims Andre, turning pale; "he's a
miserable villain to whom I owe nothing, who is nothing to me."

He pauses, a little embarrassed by this explosion of wrath, which he
could not hold back and cannot explain, and continues in a milder tone:

"My mother, who comes to see me sometimes, although she has been
forbidden to do so, was the first to be informed of our plans. She
already loves Mademoiselle Elise like her own daughter. You will see,
Mademoiselle, how good she is, and how lovely and charming. What a
misfortune that she belongs to such a vile man, who tyrannizes over her
and tortures her so far as to forbid her mentioning her son's name!"

Poor Maranne heaves a sigh which tells the whole story of the great
sorrow he conceals in the depths of his heart. But what melancholy can
endure before the dear face illumined by fair curls and the radiant
outlook for the future? The serious questions decided, they can open the
door and recall the banished children. In order not to fill those little
heads with thoughts beyond their years, they have agreed to say nothing
of the prodigious event, to tell them nothing except that they must
dress in haste and eat their breakfast even more hurriedly, so that they
can pass the afternoon at the Bois, where Maranne will read his play to
them, awaiting the hour to go to Suresnes for a fish-dinner at
Kontzen's; a long programme of delights in honor of the acceptance of
_Revolte_ and of another piece of good news which they shall know later.

"Ah! indeed. What can it be?" query the two children with an innocent
air.

But if you fancy that they do not know what is in the wind, if you think
that, when Mademoiselle Elise struck three blows on the ceiling, they
believed that she did it for the special purpose of inquiring about the
photographing business, you are even more ingenuous than Pere Joyeuse.

"Never mind, never mind, mesdemoiselles. Go and dress."

Thereupon another refrain begins:

"What dress must I wear, Grandmamma? The gray?"

"Grandmamma, there's a ribbon gone from my hat."

"Grandmamma, my child, I haven't any starched cravat."

For ten minutes there is a constant going and coming around the charming
Grandmamma, constant appeals to her. Every one needs her, she keeps the
keys to everything, distributes the pretty, finely fluted white linen,
the embroidered handkerchiefs, the best gloves, all the treasures which,
when produced from bandboxes and cupboards and laid o