r the repetition of 'Pray for the
repose,' as it died away in the distance. No, life seemed to him by
contrast more enjoyable than usual, the _Vouvray_ sparkled more brightly
in the decanters, and his good stories had a telling echo in the
huge half-empty dining-room. The sodden subservient face of Moser the
candidate wore a fawning smile, though he wished his daughter away. But
the philosopher was a man of great influence in the Academie.

After coffee had been served on the terrace, Laniboire, with his face
coloured like a Redskin, called out, 'Now let's go and work, Mdlle.
Moser; I feel quite in the humour. I believe I shall finish my report
to-day.' The gentle little lady, who sometimes acted as his secretary,
rose with some regret. On a delicious day like this, hazy with the first
mists of autumn, a good walk, or perhaps a continuation on the gallery
of her talk with the charming and well-mannered M. Paul, would have
pleased her better than writing at old M. Laniboire's dictation
commendations of devoted hospital-nurses or exemplary attendants. But
her father urged her to go, as the great man wanted her. She obeyed and
went upstairs behind Laniboire, followed by old Moser, who was going to
have his afternoon nap.

Laniboire may have had Pascal's nose, but he had not his manners. When
Paul came back from cooling his ambitious hopes by a long walk in the
woods, he found the break waiting at the foot of the steps in the great
court. The two fine horses were pawing the ground, and Mdlle. Moser was
inside, surrounded by boxes and bags, while Moser, looking bewildered,
stood on the doorstep, feeling in his pockets and bestowing coins on
two or three sneering footmen. Paul went up to the carriage, 'So you are
leaving us, Mademoiselle.' She gave him a thin clammy hand, on which she
had forgotten to put a glove, and without saying a word, or removing the
handkerchief with which she was wiping her eyes under her veil, she bent
her head in sign of good-bye. He learnt little more from old Moser, who
stammered out in a low voice, as he stood vexed and gloomy, with one
foot on the step of the carriage 'It's her doing: she _will_ go. He
was rude to her she says, but I can't believe it.' Then with a profound
sigh, and knitting the wrinkle in his brow, the deep, red, scar-like
wrinkle of the Academic candidate, he added, 'It's a very bad thing for
my election.'

Laniboire stayed all the afternoon in his room, and at dinner, as he