e
original among the old papers, and he thinks he did not belong to the
family. You know, that old face with the gray beard, near the door."

The young girl bent her head, like a child who sees her naughty sister
throw down her castle of cards.

"And how do you know?" said she, after a moment's reflection. "You
were at the piano. How could you hear at the other end of the room what
Monsieur de Gerfaut was saying?"

It was Clemence's turn to hang her head, for it seemed to her that the
girl had suspected the constant attention which, under an affectation of
indifference, never allowed her to lose one of Octave's words. As usual,
she concealed her embarrassment by redoubling her sarcasm.

"Very likely," said she, "I was mistaken, and you may be right after
all. What day shall we have the honor of saluting Madame la Vicomtesse
de Gerfaut?"

"I foolishly told you what I imagined, and you at once make fun of me,"
said Aline, whose round face lengthened at each word, and passed from
rose-color to scarlet; "is it my fault that my brother said this?"

"I do not think it was necessary for him to speak of it, for you to
think a great deal about the matter."

"Very well; must one not think of something?"

"But one should be careful of one's thoughts; it is not proper for a
young girl to think of any man," replied Clemence, with an accent of
severity which would have made her aunt recognize with pride the pure
blood of the Corandeuils.

"I think it is more proper for a young girl to do so than for a married
woman."

At this unexpected retort, Madame de Bergenheim lost countenance and
sat speechless before the young maiden, like a pupil who has just been
punished by his teacher.

"Where the devil did the little serpent get that idea?" thought
Gerfaut, who was very ill at ease between the two wardrobes where he was
concealed.

Seeing that her sister-in-law did not reply to her, Aline took this
silence from confusion for an expression of bad temper, and at once
became angry in her turn.

"You are very cross to-day," said she; "good-by, I do not want your
books."

She threw the volumes of Waverley upon the sofa, picked up her
watering-pot and went out, closing the door with a loud bang. Madame de
Bergenheim sat motionless with a pensive, gloomy air, as if the young
girl's remark had changed her into a statue.

"Shall I enter?" said Octave to himself, leaving his niche and putting
his hand upon the door-knob. "This