nd on his left the Permanent
Secretary, reading quietly with recovered self-possession the report
of the Funeral Committee, to an accompaniment of eager whispers and the
pattering of sleet on the glass.

'How late you went on to-day!' remarked Coren-tine, as she opened the
door to her master. Corentine was certainly to be reckoned with those
who had no great opinion of the Institute. 'M. Paul is in your study
with Madame. You must go through the library; the drawing-room is full
of people waiting to see you.'

The library, where nothing was left but the frame of the pigeon-holes,
looked as if there had been a fire or a burglary. It depressed him, and
he generally avoided it But to-day he went through it proudly, supported
by the remembrance of his resolve, and of how he had declared it at
the meeting. After an effort, which had cost him so much courage and
determination, he felt a sweet sense of relief in the thought that his
son was waiting for him. He had not seen him since just after the duel,
when he had been overcome by the sight of his gallant boy, laid at full
length and whiter than the sheet. He was thinking with delight how he
would go up to him with open arms, and embrace him, and hold him tight,
a long while, and say nothing--nothing! But as soon as he came into the
room and saw the mother and son close together, whispering, with
their eyes on the carpet, and their everlasting air of conspiracy, the
affectionate impulse was gone.

'Here you are at last!' cried Madame Astier, who was dressed to go out.
And in a tone of mock solemnity, as if introducing the two, she said,
'My dear--the Count Paul Astier.'

'At your service, Master,' said Paul, as he bowed.

Astier-Rehu knitted his thick brows as he looked at them. '_Count_ Paul
Astier?' said he.

The young fellow, as charming as ever, in spite of the tanning of
six months spent in the open air, said he had just indulged in the
extravagance of a Roman title, not so much for his own sake as in honour
of the lady who was about to take his name.

'So you are going to be married,' said his father, whose suspicions
increased. 'And who is the lady?'

'The Duchess Padovani.'

'You must have lost your senses! Why she is five-and-twenty years older
than you, and besides--and besides--' He hesitated, trying to find a
respectful phrase, but at last blurted right out, 'You can't marry a
woman who to every one's knowledge has belonged to another for years.'

'A