to remind her of
the bill due at the end of the month, and her promise to send the money
to good little Stenne, who had been left in the Rue Fortuny as sole
garrison of the mediaeval mansion. If Sammy's money had not yet come in,
she might borrow of the Freydets, who would not refuse to advance it for
a few days. That very morning the Paris papers in their foreign news
had announced the marriage of the French Ambassador at St. Petersburg,
mentioned the presence of the Grand Duke, described the bride's dresses,
and given the name of the Polish Bishop who had bestowed his blessing on
the happy pair. Mamma might imagine how the breakfast party at Mousseaux
was affected by this news, known to every one, and read by the hostess
in the eyes of her guests and in their persistent conversation on other
topics.

The poor Duchess, who had hardly spoken during the meal, felt, when
it was over, that she must rouse herself, and in spite of the heat had
carried off all her visitors in three carriages to the Chateau de la
Poissonniere, where the poet Ronsard was born. Ten miles' drive in the
sun on a road all cracks and dust, for the pleasure of hearing that
hideous old Lani-boire, hoisted on to an old stump as decayed as
himself, recite 'Mignonne, allons voir si la rose.' On the way home
they had paid a visit to the Agricultural Orphanage and Training School
founded by old Padovani. Mamma must know it all well; they had been
over the dormitory and laundry, and inspected the implements and the
copy-books; and the whole place was so hot and smelly; and Laniboire
made a speech to the Agricultural Orphans, cropped like convicts, in
which he assured them that the world was good. To finish themselves
up they stopped again at the furnaces near Onzain, and spent an hour
between the heat of the setting sun and the smoke and smell of coal from
three huge belching brick chimneys, stumbling over the rails and dodging
the trucks and shovels full of molten metal in gigantic masses, which
dropped fire like dissolving blocks of red ice, All the time the Duchess
went on unwearied, but looked at nothing, listened to nothing. She
seemed to be having an animated discussion with old Bretigny, whose arm
she had taken, and paid as little attention to the furnaces and forges
as to the poet Ronsard or the Agricultural Orphanage.

Paul had reached this point in his letter, painting with terrible force,
to console his mother for her absence, the dullness of li