a way to her heart.

"Yes, it is justified," she said proudly. "Ange-Marie-Joseph-Urbain is
his name. As to the nickname, it is something literary. I refer you to
his father."

"It is a name to keep him true to his province," said Monsieur Urbain.
"Read Ronsard, my friend. It was the name he gave to Henry, Duc d'Anjou.
But I must fetch the book, and read you the pretty pastoral."

"My dear friend, you must excuse me. I am perfectly satisfied. A very
good name, Angelot! But to read or listen to that ancient poetry before
the flood--"

They all laughed. "What a wonderful man he is!" said the Comte to Madame
Urbain. "As poetical as he is practical."

It all seemed pleasant trifling, then and for the rest of the evening.
The young countryman of Ronsard's naming was rather silent and shy, and
the Comte's daughter had not much to say; the elders talked for the
whole party. This, they thought, was quite as it should be.

But the boy who had said that morning, "Young girls are hardly
companions for me," and had talked lightly of his father's finding a
husband for Mademoiselle de Sainfoy, lay down that night with a girl's
face reigning in his dreams; and went so far as to tell himself that it
was for good or evil, for time and for eternity.

CHAPTER VII

THE SLEEP OF MADEMOISELLE MOINEAU

"We must make the best of it," said Madame de Sainfoy. "To be practical
is the great thing. I know you agree with me."

She had a dazzling smile, utterly without sweetness. Madame de la
Mariniere said it was like the flashing of sunbeams on ice; but it had a
much more warming and inspiring effect on Urbain.

"It is one of the few consolations in life," he said, "to meet with
supreme good sense like yours."

They were standing together in one of the deep windows of the Chateau de
Lancilly; a window which looked out to the garden front towards the
valley and La Mariniere. A deep dry moat surrounded the great house on
all sides; here, as on the other front, where there were wings and a
courtyard, it was approached by a stiff avenue, a terrace, and a bridge.
But this ancient and gloomy state of things could not be allowed to
continue. An army of peasants was hard at work filling up the moat,
laying out winding paths in the park, making preparations for the
"English garden" of a thousand meaningless twists leading to nowhere,
which was the Empire's idea of beauty. Monsieur and Madame de Sainfoy
would have no rest till their s