s finished, he opened his window and looked out;
and _then_ he wore a splendid head of black hair. He turned his eyeglass
full on me,--for by that time, I was in my balcony. Therefore, my dear
Cecile, you see for yourself that you can't take that man for the hero
of your romance."

"Why not? Men of fifty are not to be despised, if they are counts," said
Ernestine.

"Heavens! what has age to do with it?" said Mademoiselle Herbelot.

"Provided one gets a husband," added Vinet, whose cold maliciousness
made him feared.

"Yes," replied the old maid, feeling the cut, "I should prefer a man of
fifty, indulgent, kind, and considerate, to a young man without a heart,
whose wit would bite every one, even his wife."

"This is all very well for conversation," retorted Vinet, "but in order
to love the man of fifty and reject the other, it is necessary to have
the opportunity to choose."

"Oh!" said Madame Mollot, in order to stop this passage at arms between
the old maid and Vinet, who always went to far, "when a woman has
had experience of life she knows that a husband of fifty or one of
twenty-five is absolutely the same thing if she merely respects him. The
important things in marriage are the benefits to be derived from it. If
Mademoiselle Beauvisage wants to go to Paris and shine there--and in
her place I should certainly feel so--she ought not to take a husband
in Arcis. If I had the fortune she will have, I should give my hand to
a count, to a man who would put me in a high social position, and I
shouldn't ask to see the certificate of his birth."

"It would satisfy you to see his toilet," whispered Vinet in her ear.

"But the king makes counts," said Madame Marion, who had now joined the
group and was surveying the bevy of young ladies.

"Ah! madame," remarked Vinet, "but some young girls prefer their counts
already made."

"Well, Monsieur Antonin," said Cecile, laughing at Vinet's sarcasm.
"Your ten minutes have expired, and you haven't told us whether the
Unknown is a count or not."

"I shall keep my promise," replied the sub-prefect, perceiving at that
moment the head of his valet in the doorway; and again he left his place
beside Cecile.

"You are talking of the stranger," said Madame Marion. "Is anything
really known about him?"

"No, madame," replied Achille Pigoult; "but he is, without knowing it,
like the clown of a circus, the centre of the eyes of the two thousand
inhabitants of this town. I know