till on her sofa, beside the fire in the
salon. Josette opened the door; and the Vicomte de Troisville,
followed by the Abbe de Sponde, presented himself to the eyes of the
spinster.

"Niece, this is Monsieur le Vicomte de Troisville, the grandson of one
of my old schoolmates; Monsieur de Troisville, my niece, Mademoiselle
Cormon."

"Ah! that good uncle; how well he does it!" thought
Rose-Marie-Victoire.

The Vicomte de Troisville was, to paint him in two words, du Bousquier
ennobled. Between the two men there was precisely the difference which
separates the vulgar style from the noble style. If they had both been
present, the most fanatic liberal would not have denied the existence
of aristocracy. The viscount's strength had all the distinction of
elegance; his figure had preserved its magnificent dignity. He had
blue eyes, black hair, an olive skin, and looked to be about forty-six
years of age. You might have thought him a handsome Spaniard preserved
in the ice of Russia. His manner, carriage, and attitude, all denoted
a diplomat who had seen Europe. His dress was that of a well-bred
traveller. As he seemed fatigued, the abbe offered to show him to his
room, and was much amazed when his niece threw open the door of the
boudoir, transformed into a bedroom.

Mademoiselle Cormon and her uncle then left the noble stranger to
attend to his own affairs, aided by Jacquelin, who brought up his
luggage, and went themselves to walk beside the river until their
guest had made his toilet. Although the Abbe de Sponde chanced to be
even more absent-minded than usual, Mademoiselle Cormon was not less
preoccupied. They both walked on in silence. The old maid had never
before met any man as seductive as this Olympean viscount. She might
have said to herself, as the Germans do, "This is my ideal!" instead
of which she felt herself bound from head to foot, and could only say,
"Here's my affair!" Then she flew to Mariette to know if the dinner
could be put back a while without loss of excellence.

"Uncle, your Monsieur de Troisville is very amiable," she said, on
returning.

"Why, niece, he hasn't as yet said a word."

"But you can see it in his ways, his manners, his face. Is he a
bachelor?"

"I'm sure I don't know," replied the abbe, who was thinking of a
discussion on mercy, lately begun between the Abbe Couturier and
himself. "Monsieur de Troisville wrote me that he wanted to buy a
house here. If he was married, he would