ined to
have recourse to falsehood, in order to account for her appearance
there; and, relying on the really paternal affection which the comte had
always testified for her, she said to him, with that air at once
graceful, cordial, and decided, which was so peculiarly her own:

"Come, now, do not scold; you are my old, very old friend. Recollect you
called me your dear little Clotilde at least twenty years ago."

"Yes, I called you so then; but--"

"I know beforehand all you would say: you know my motto, 'What is, is
what will be.'"

"Oh, Clotilde!"

"Spare your reproaches, and let me rather express my extreme delight at
seeing you again: your presence reminds me of so many things,--my poor
dear father, in the first place, and then--heigho! my 'sweet fifteen!'
Oh, how delightful it is to be fifteen!"

"It is because your father was my friend that--"

"Oh, yes," said the duchess, interrupting M. de Saint-Remy, "he was so
very fond of you! You remember he always called you the man with the
green ribands, and you always told him, 'You spoil Clotilde; mind, I
tell you so;' and he replied, whilst he kissed me, 'I really do believe
I spoil her, and I must make all haste and double my spoiling, for very
soon the world will deprive me of her to spoil her in their turn.' Dear
father! What a friend I lost!" and a tear started to the lovely eyes of
Madame de Lucenay; then, extending her hand to M. de Saint-Remy, she said,
in a faltering voice, "But indeed, in truth, I am happy, very happy, to
see you again, you call up such precious remembrances,--memories so dear
to my heart!"

The comte, although he had long been acquainted with her original and
decisive disposition, was really amazed at the ease with which Clotilde
reconciled herself to her exceedingly delicate position, which was no
other than to meet her lover's father in her lover's house.

"If you have been in Paris for any time," continued Madame de Lucenay,
"it is very naughty of you not to have come and seen me before this; for
we should have had such long talks over the past; for you must know that
I have reached an age when there is an excessive pleasure in saying to
old friends, 'Don't you remember!'"

Assuredly the duchess could not have discoursed with more confirmed
tranquillity if she were receiving a morning visit at the Hotel de
Lucenay. M. de Saint-Remy could not prevent himself from saying with
severity:

"Instead of talking of the past, it would