it was opened to us by Baptiste,
the office-boy, who waits at table on grand occasions.

My uncle received us in the large drawing-room, in full dress, with his
whitest cravat and his most camphorous frock-coat: "not a moth in ten
years," is Madeleine's boast concerning this garment.

He saluted us all solemnly, without his usual effusiveness; bearing
himself with simple and touching dignity. Strong emotion, which excites
most natures, only served to restrain his. He said not a word of the
past, nor of our marriage. This, the decisive engagement, opened with
polite formalities.

I have often noticed this phenomenon; people meeting to "have it out"
usually begin by saying nothing at all.

M. Mouillard offered his arm to Jeanne, to escort her to the
dining-room. Jeanne was in high spirits. She asked him question after
question about Bourges, its dances, fashions, manufactures, even about
the procedure of its courts.

"I am sure you know that well, uncle," she said.

"Uncle" smiled at each question, his face illumined with a glow like
that upon a chimney-piece when someone is blowing the fire. He answered
her questions, but presently fell into a state of dejection, which even
his desire to do honor to his guests could not entirely conceal. His
thoughts betrayed themselves in the looks he kept casting upon me, no
longer of anger, but of suffering, almost pleading, affection.

M. Charnot, who was rather tired, and also absorbed in Madeleine's feats
of cookery, cast disjointed remarks and ejaculations into the gaps in
the conversation.

I knew my uncle well enough to feel sure that the end of the dinner
would be quite unlike the beginning.

I was right. During dessert, just as the Academician was singing the
praises of a native delicacy, 'la forestine', my uncle, who had been
revolving a few drops of some notable growth of Medoc in his glass for
the last minute or two, stopped suddenly, and put down his glass on the
table.

"My dear Monsieur Charnot," said he, "I have a painful confession to
make to you."

"Eh? What? My dear friend, if it's painful to you, don't make it."

"Fabien," my uncle went on, "has behaved badly to me on certain
occasions. But I say no more of it. His faults are forgotten. But I have
not behaved to him altogether as I should."

"You, uncle?"

"Alas! It is so, my dear child. My practice, the family practice, which
I faithfully promised your father to keep for you--"

"You have sold i