portance now given by the laws to money: nobility was no longer of
value! nor beauty either! Such creatures as the Rogrons, the Vinets,
could stand up and fight with the King of France!

Bathilde de Chargeboeuf had not only the incontestable superiority of
beauty over her rival, but that of dress as well. She was dazzlingly
fair. At twenty-five her shoulders were fully developed, and the curves
of her beautiful figure were exquisite. The roundness of her throat, the
purity of its lines, the wealth of her golden hair, the charming grace
of her smile, the distinguished carriage of her head, the character of
her features, the fine eyes finely placed beneath a well-formed brow,
her every motion, noble and high-bred, and her light and graceful
figure,--all were in harmony. Her hands were beautiful, and her feet
slender. Health gave her, perhaps, too much the look of a handsome
barmaid. "But that can't be a defect in the eyes of a Rogron," sighed
Madame Tiphaine. Mademoiselle de Chargeboeuf's dress when she made her
first appearance in Provins at the Rogrons' house was very simple. Her
brown merino gown edged with green embroidery was worn low-necked; but
a tulle fichu, carefully drawn down by hidden strings, covered her neck
and shoulders, though it opened a little in front, where its folds
were caught together with a _sevigne_. Beneath this delicate fabric
Bathilde's beauties seemed all the more enticing and coquettish. She
took off her velvet bonnet and her shawl on arriving, and showed her
pretty ears adorned with what were then called "ear-drops" in gold.
She wore a little _jeannette_--a black velvet ribbon with a heart
attached--round her throat, where it shone like the jet ring which
fantastic nature had fastened round the tail of a white angora cat. She
knew all the little tricks of a girl who seeks to marry; her fingers
arranged her curls which were not in the least out of order; she
entreated Rogron to fasten a cuff-button, thus showing him her wrist,
a request which that dazzled fool rudely refused, hiding his emotions
under the mask of indifference. The timidity of the only love he was
ever to feel in the whole course of his life took an external appearance
of dislike. Sylvie and her friend Celeste Habert were deceived by it;
not so Vinet, the wise head of this doltish circle, among whom no one
really coped with him but the priest,--the colonel being for a long time
his ally.

On the other hand the colonel was be