igner_; one of those _allies_ so hated
by the liberals; the Abbe de Sponde had slyly negotiated this marriage.
All the persons who had a right to call upon Mademoiselle Cormon
determined to do so that very evening.

During this transurban excitement, which made that of Suzanne almost
a forgotten affair, Mademoiselle was not less agitated; she was filled
with a variety of novel emotions. Looking about her salon, dining-room,
and boudoir, cruel apprehensions took possession of her. A species of
demon showed her with a sneer her old-fashioned luxury. The handsome
things she had admired from her youth up she suddenly suspected of age
and absurdity. In short, she felt that fear which takes possession of
nearly all authors when they read over a work they have hitherto thought
proof against every exacting or blase critic: new situations seem
timeworn; the best-turned and most highly polished phrases limp and
squint; metaphors and images grin or contradict each other; whatsoever
is false strikes the eye. In like manner this poor woman trembled lest
she should see on the lips of Monsieur de Troisville a smile of contempt
for this episcopal salon; she dreaded the cold look he might cast over
that ancient dining-room; in short, she feared the frame might injure
and age the portrait. Suppose these antiquities should cast a reflected
light of old age upon herself? This question made her flesh creep. She
would gladly, at that moment, spend half her savings on refitting her
house if some fairy wand could do it in a moment. Where is the general
who has not trembled on the eve of a battle? The poor woman was now
between her Austerlitz and her Waterloo.

"Madame la Vicomtesse de Troisville," she said to herself; "a noble
name! Our property will go to a good family, at any rate."

She fell a prey to an irritation which made every fibre of her nerves
quiver to all their papillae, long sunk in flesh. Her blood, lashed
by this new hope, was in motion. She felt the strength to converse, if
necessary, with Monsieur de Troisville.

It is useless to relate the activity with which Josette, Jacquelin,
Mariette, Moreau, and his agents went about their functions. It was like
the busyness of ants about their eggs. All that daily care had already
rendered neat and clean was again gone over and brushed and rubbed and
scrubbed. The china of ceremony saw the light; the damask linen marked
"A, B, C" was drawn from depths where it lay under a triple gua