, 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 wouldn't come alone on such an errand,"
added the abbe, carelessly, not conceiving the idea that his niece could
be thinking of marriage.

"Is he rich?"

"He is a younger son of the younger branc