handsome things she had admired from her youth up she suddenly
suspected of age and absurdity. In short, she felt that fear which

takes possession of nearly all authors when they read over a work they
have hitherto thought proof against every exacting or blase critic:

new situations seem timeworn; the best-turned and most highly polished
phrases limp and squint; metaphors and images grin or contradict each

other; whatsoever is false strikes the eye. In like manner this poor
woman trembled lest she should see on the lips of Monsieur de

Troisville a smile of contempt for this episcopal salon; she dreaded
the cold look he might cast over that ancient dining-room; in short,

she feared the frame might injure and age the portrait. Suppose these
antiquities should cast a reflected light of old age upon herself?

This question made her flesh creep. She would gladly, at that moment,
spend half her savings on refitting her house if some fairy wand could

do it in a moment. Where is the general who has not trembled on the
eve of a battle? The poor woman was now between her Austerlitz and her

Waterloo.
"Madame la Vicomtesse de Troisville," she said to herself; "a noble

name! Our property will go to a good family, at any rate."
She fell a prey to an irritation which made every fibre of her nerves

quiver to all their papillae, long sunk in flesh. Her blood, lashed by
this new hope, was in motion. She felt the strength to converse, if

necessary, with Monsieur de Troisville.
It is useless to relate the activity with which Josette, Jacquelin,

Mariette, Moreau, and his agents went about their functions. It was
like the busyness of ants about their eggs. All that daily care had

already rendered neat and clean was again gone over and brushed and
rubbed and scrubbed. The china of ceremony saw the light; the damask

linen marked "A, B, C" was drawn from depths where it lay under a
triple guard of wrappings, still further defended by formidable lines

of pins. Above all, Mademoiselle Cormon sacrificed on the altar of her
hopes three bottles of the famous liqueurs of Madame Amphoux, the most

illustrious of all the distillers of the tropics,--a name very dear to
gourmets. Thanks to the devotion of her lieutenants, mademoiselle was

soon ready for the conflict. The different weapons--furniture,
cookery, provisions, in short, all the various munitions of war,

together with a body of reserve forces--were ready along the whole
line. Jacquelin, Mariette, and Josette received orders to appear in

full dress. The garden was raked. The old maid regretted that she
couldn't come to an understanding with the nightingales nesting in the

trees, in order to obtain their finest trilling.
At last, about four o'clock, at the very moment when the Abbe de

Sponde returned home, and just as mademoiselle began to think she had
set the table with the best plate and linen and prepared the choicest

dishes to no purpose, the click-clack of a postilion was heard in the
Val-Noble.

"'Tis he!" she said to herself, the snap of the whip echoing in her
heart.

True enough; heralded by all this gossip, a post-chaise, in which was
a single gentleman, made so great a sensation coming down the rue

Saint-Blaise and turning into the rue du Cours that several little
gamains and some grown persons followed it, and stood in groups about

the gate of the hotel Cormon to see it enter. Jacquelin, who foresaw
his own marriage in that of his mistress, had also heard the click-

clack in the rue Saint-Blaise, and had opened wide the gates into the
courtyard. The postilion, a friend of his, took pride in making a fine

turn-in, and drew up sharply before the portico. The abbe came forward
to greet his guest, whose carriage was emptied with a speed that

highwaymen might put into the operation; the chaise itself was rolled
into the coach-house, the gates closed, and in a few moments all signs

of Monsieur de Troisville's arrival had disappeared. Never did two
chemicals blend into each other with greater rapidity than the hotel

Cormon displayed in absorbing the Vicomte de Troisville.
Mademoiselle, whose heart was beating like a lizard caught by a

herdsman, sat heroically still on her sofa, beside the fire in the
salon. Josette opened the door; and the Vicomte de Troisville,

followed by the Abbe de Sponde, presented himself to the eyes of the
spinster.

"Niece, 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 fanaticliberal would not have denied the existence
of aristocracy. The viscount's strength had all the distinction of

elegance; his figure had preserved its magnificentdignity. 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 branch," replied her uncle. "His

grandfather commanded a squadron, but the father of this young man
made a bad marriage."

"Young man!" exclaimed the old maid. "It seems to me, uncle, that he
must be at least forty-five." She felt the strongest desire to put

their years on a par.
"Yes," said the abbe; "but to a poor priest of seventy, Rose, a man of

forty seems a youth."
All Alencon knew by this time that Monsieur de Troisville had arrived

at the Cormons. The traveller soon rejoined his hosts, and began to
admire the Brillante, the garden, and the house.

"Monsieur l'abbe," he said, "my whole ambition is to have a house like
this." The old maid fancied a declaration lurked in that speech, and

she lowered her eyes. "You must enjoy it very much, mademoiselle,"
added the viscount.

"How could it be otherwise? It has been in our family since 1574, the
period at which one of our ancestors, steward to the Duc d'Alencon,

acquired the land and built the house," replied Mademoiselle Cormon.
"It is built on piles," she added.