ng, from an aunt. This sum, joined to the
small present fortune of the Guenics, might enable her to find a wife
for Calyste, who would bring him twelve or even fifteen thousand francs
a year. Charlotte de Kergarouet, with her aunt's fortune, a rich Irish
girl, or any other good heiress would have suited the baroness, who
seemed indifferent as to choice. She was ignorant of love, having never
known it, and, like all the other persons grouped about her, she saw
nothing in marriage but a means of fortune. Passion was an unknown thing
to these Catholic souls, these old people exclusively concerned
about salvation, God, the king, and their property. No one should be
surprised, therefore, at the foreboding thoughts which accompanied
the wounded feelings of the mother, who lived as much for the future
interests of her son as by her love for him. If the young household
would only listen to wisdom, she thought, the coming generation of the
du Guenics, by enduring privations, and saving, as people do save in the
provinces, would be able to buy back their estates and recover, in the
end, the lustre of wealth. The baroness prayed for a long age that she
might see the dawn of this prosperous era. Mademoiselle du Guenic had
understood and fully adopted this hope which Mademoiselle des Touches
now threatened to overthrow.

The baroness heard midnight strike, with tears; her mind conceived of
many horrors during the next hour, for the clock struck one, and Calyste
was still not at home.

"Will he stay there?" she thought. "It would be the first time. Poor
child!"

At that moment Calyste's step resounded in the lane. The poor mother, in
whose heart rejoicing drove out anxiety, flew from the house to the gate
and opened it for her boy.

"Oh!" cried Calyste, in a grieved voice, "my darling mother, why did you
sit up for me? I have a pass-key and the tinder-box."

"You know very well, my child, that I cannot sleep when you are out,"
she said, kissing him.

When the baroness reached the salon, she looked at her son to discover,
if possible, from the expression of his face the events of the
evening. But he caused her, as usual, an emotion that frequency never
weakened,--an emotion which all loving mothers feel at sight of a
human masterpiece made by them; this sentiment blues their sight and
supersedes all others for the moment.

Except for the black eyes, full of energy and the heat of the sun, which
he derived from his father, Cal