"Now it is you who are unjust, Maximilian," cried Valentine; "but there
is one thing I wish to know."

"And what is that?" inquired the young man, perceiving that Valentine
hesitated.

"Tell me truly, Maximilian, whether in former days, when our fathers
dwelt at Marseilles, there was ever any misunderstanding between them?"

"Not that I am aware of," replied the young man, "unless, indeed, any
ill-feeling might have arisen from their being of opposite parties--your
father was, as you know, a zealous partisan of the Bourbons, while mine
was wholly devoted to the emperor; there could not possibly be any other
difference between them. But why do you ask?"

"I will tell you," replied the young girl, "for it is but right you
should know. Well, on the day when your appointment as an officer of the
Legion of honor was announced in the papers, we were all sitting with my
grandfather, M. Noirtier; M. Danglars was there also--you recollect M.
Danglars, do you not, Maximilian, the banker, whose horses ran away with
my mother-in-law and little brother, and very nearly killed them? While
the rest of the company were discussing the approaching marriage of
Mademoiselle Danglars, I was reading the paper to my grandfather; but
when I came to the paragraph about you, although I had done nothing else
but read it over to myself all the morning (you know you had told me all
about it the previous evening), I felt so happy, and yet so nervous, at
the idea of speaking your name aloud, and before so many people, that
I really think I should have passed it over, but for the fear that my
doing so might create suspicions as to the cause of my silence; so I
summoned up all my courage, and read it as firmly and as steadily as I
could."

"Dear Valentine!"

"Well, would you believe it? directly my father caught the sound of your
name he turned round quite hastily, and, like a poor silly thing, I was
so persuaded that every one must be as much affected as myself by the
utterance of your name, that I was not surprised to see my father start,
and almost tremble; but I even thought (though that surely must have
been a mistake) that M. Danglars trembled too."

"'Morrel, Morrel,' cried my father, 'stop a bit;' then knitting his
brows into a deep frown, he added, 'surely this cannot be one of the
Morrel family who lived at Marseilles, and gave us so much trouble from
their violent Bonapartism--I mean about the year 1815.'--'Yes,' replied
M. Danglars,