her, and rudely ordered
her to bed. She told him, _naively_, that she was afraid of thieves in
the night, but that she was resolute, and capable of defending herself;
at the same time drawing from her large woollen pelisse a small but
exceedingly keen stiletto, the sight of which set the notary thinking.

Believing that Cecily was afraid of robbers only, he showed her to the
late chamber of Louise; after having examined it, Cecily said,
trembling, she would sleep in a chair, because the door had neither lock
nor bolt. Jacques Ferrand, unwilling to compromise himself by rousing
Cecily's suspicions, promised a bolt should be fixed. The creole did not
go to bed.

In the morning the notary sent to her to show her how to set about her
work. He had promised himself to preserve for the first few days a
hypocritical reserve with respect to his new servant, in order to
inspire her with confidence; but smitten by her beauty, which by
daylight was even more striking, blinded, maddened by his desires, which
already got the better of him, he stammered out some compliments as to
the figure and beauty of Cecily. She, with keen sagacity, had judged
that, from her first interview with the notary, he was completely caught
in her spells; at the confession he made of his flame, she thought it
policy to cast aside at once her feigned timidity, and, as we have said,
to change her mask. The creole suddenly assumed a bold air. Jacques
Ferrand again complimented her beauty and her graceful figure.

"Look at me well!" said Cecily to him, in a bold tone. "Although I am
dressed as an Alsatian peasant, do I look like a servant?"

"What do you mean?" cried Jacques Ferrand.

"Look at this hand, does it appear accustomed to hard labour?" and she
presented a white, delicate hand, with long and slender fingers, with
nails as rosy and polished as agate, but whose root, slightly browned,
betrayed the creole blood. "And this foot, is it that of a servant?" and
she protruded a beautiful small foot, coquettishly shod, which the
notary had not before remarked, and from which he only removed his eyes
to gaze on Cecily with amazement. "I told my Aunt Pipelet what story I
chose; she knew nothing of my former life, and believes me reduced to my
present condition through the death of my parents, and takes me for a
servant,--but you, I hope, have too much sagacity to show her error,
dear master."

"Who, then, are you?" exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, more and more