always came into such hands we shouldn't see a beggar in the country."

Another said: "Dear me, I shouldn't be surprised if the vineyards were
in bloom; here's Mademoiselle Cormon going to Prebaudet. How happens

it she doesn't marry?"
"I'd marry her myself," said a wag; "in fact, the marriage is half-

made, for here's one consenting party; but the other side won't. Pooh!
the oven is heating for Monsieur du Bousquier."

"Monsieur du Bousquier! Why, she has refused him."
That evening at all the gatherings it was told gravely:--

"Mademoiselle Cormon has gone."
Or:--

"So you have really let Mademoiselle Cormon go."
The Wednesday chosen by Suzanne to make known her scandal happened to

be this farewell Wednesday,--a day on which Mademoiselle Cormon drove
Josette distracted on the subject of packing. During the morning,

therefore, things had been said and done in the town which lent the
utmost interest to this farewell meeting. Madame Granson had gone the

round of a dozen houses while the old maid was deliberating on the
things she needed for the journey; and the malicious Chevalier de

Valois was playing piquet with Mademoiselle Armande, sister of a
distinguished old marquis, and the queen of the salon of the

aristocrats. If it was not uninteresting to any one to see what figure
the seducer would cut that evening, it was all important for the

chevalier and Madame Granson to know how Mademoiselle Cormon would
take the news in her double capacity of marriageable woman and

president of the Maternity Society. As for the innocent du Bousquier,
he was taking a walk on the promenade, and beginning to suspect that

Suzanne had tricked him; this suspicion confirmed him in his
principles as to women.

On gala days the table was laid at Mademoiselle Cormon's about half-
past three o'clock. At that period the fashionable people of Alencon

dined at four. Under the Empire they still dined as in former times at
half-past two; but then they supped! One of the pleasures which

Mademoiselle Cormon valued most was (without meaning any malice,
although the fact certainly rests on egotism) the unspeakable

satisfaction she derived from seeing herself dressed as mistress of
the house to receive her guests. When she was thus under arms a ray of

hope would glide into the darkness of her heart; a voice told her that
nature had not so abundantly provided for her in vain, and that some

man, brave and enterprising, would surely present himself. Her desire
was refreshed like her person; she contemplated herself in her heavy

stuffs with a sort of intoxication, and this satisfaction continued
when she descended the stairs to cast her redoubtable eye on the

salon, the dinner-table, and the boudoir. She would then walk about
with the naive contentment of the rich,--who remember at all moments

that they are rich and will never want for anything. She looked at her
eternal furniture, her curiosities, her lacquers, and said to herself

that all these fine things wanted was a master. After admiring the
dining-room, and the oblong dinner-table, on which was spread a snow-

white cloth adorned with twenty covers placed at equal distances;
after verifying the squadron of bottles she had ordered to be brought

up, and which all bore honorable labels; after carefully verifying the
names written on little bits of paper in the trembling handwriting of

the abbe (the only duty he assumed in the household, and one which
gave rise to grave discussions on the place of each guest),--after

going through all these preliminary acts mademoiselle went, in her
fine clothes, to her uncle, who was accustomed at this, the best hour

in the day, to take his walk on the terrace which overlooked the
Brillante, where he could listen to the warble of birds which were

resting in the coppice, unafraid of either sportsmen or children. At
such times of waiting she never joined the Abbe de Sponde without

asking him some ridiculous question, in order to draw the old man into
a discussion which might serve to amuse him. And her reason was this,

--which will serve to complete our picture of this excellent woman's
nature:--

Mademoiselle Cormon regarded it as one of her duties to talk; not that
she was talkative, for she had unfortunately too few ideas, and did

not know enough phrases to conversereadily. But she believed she was
accomplishing one of the social duties enjoined by religion, which

orders us to make ourselves agreeable to our neighbor. This obligation
cost her so much that she consulted her director, the Abbe Couturier,

upon the subject of this honest but puerile civility. In spite of the
humble remark of his penitent, confessing the inward labor of her mind

in finding anything to say, the old priest, rigid on the point of
discipline, read her a passage from Saint-Francois de Sales on the

duties of women in society, which dwelt on the decent gayety of pious
Christian women, who were bound to reserve their sternness for

themselves, and to be amiable and pleasing in their homes, and see
that their neighbors enjoyed themselves. Thus, filled with a sense of

duty, and wishing, at all costs, to obey her director, who bade her
converse with amenity, the poor soul perspired in her corset when the

talk around her languished, so much did she suffer from the effort of
emitting ideas in order to revive it. Under such circumstances she

would put forth the silliest statements, such as: "No one can be in
two places at once--unless it is a little bird," by which she one day

roused, and not without success, a discussion on the ubiquity of the
apostles, which she was unable to comprehend. Such efforts at

conversation won her the appellation of "that good Mademoiselle
Cormon," which, from the lips of the beaux esprits of society, means

that she was as ignorant as a carp, and rather a poor fool; but many
persons of her own calibre took the remark in its literal sense, and

answered:--
"Yes; oh yes! Mademoiselle Cormon is an excellent woman."

Sometimes she would put such absurd questions (always for the purpose
of fulfilling her duties to society, and making herself agreeable to

her guests) that everybody burst out laughing. She asked, for
instance, what the government did with the taxes they were always

receiving; and why the Bible had not been printed in the days of Jesus
Christ, inasmuch as it was written by Moses. Her mental powers were

those of the English "country gentleman" who, hearingconstant mention
of "posterity" in the House of Commons, rose to make the speech that

has since become celebrated: "Gentlemen," he said, "I hear much talk
in this place about Posterity. I should be glad to know what that

power has ever done for England."
Under these circumstances the heroic Chevalier de Valois would bring

to the succor of the old maid all the powers of his clever diplomacy,
whenever he saw the pitiless smile of wiser heads. The old gentleman,

who loved to assist women, turned Mademoiselle Cormon's sayings into
wit by sustaining them paradoxically, and he often covered the retreat

so well that it seemed as if the good woman had said nothing silly.
She asserted very seriously one evening that she did not see any

difference between an ox and a bull. The dear chevalier instantly
arrested the peals of laughter by asserting that there was only the

difference between a sheep and a lamb.
But the Chevalier de Valois served an ungrateful dame, for never did

Mademoiselle Cormon comprehend his chivalrous services. Observing that
the conversation grew lively, she simply thought that she was not so

stupid as she was,--the result being that she settled down into her
ignorance with some complacency; she lost her timidity, and acquired a

self-possession which gave to her "speeches" something of the
solemnity with which the British enunciate their patriotic

absurdities,--the self-conceit of stupidity, as it may be called.
As she approached her uncle, on this occasion, with a majestic step,

she was ruminating over a question that might draw him from a silence,
which always troubled her, for she feared he was dull.

"Uncle," she said, leaning on his arm and clinging to his side (this
was one of her fictions; for she said to herself "If I had a husband I

should do just so"),--"uncle, if everything here below happens
according to the will of God, there must be a reason for everything."