as may secure your durable happiness----"
"My good father," replied Emilie, assuming her most coaxing tone of

voice to interrupt him, "it strikes me that the armistice on which we
agreed as to my suitors is not yet expired."

"Emilie, we must to-day forbear from jesting on so important a matter.
For some time past the efforts of those who most truly love you, my

dear child, have been concentrated on the endeavor to settle you
suitably; and you would be guilty of ingratitude in meeting with

levity those proofs of kindness which I am not alone in lavishing on
you."

As she heard these words, after flashing a mischievously inquisitive
look at the furniture of her father's study, the young girl brought

forward the armchair which looked as if it had been least used by
petitioners, set it at the side of the fireplace so as to sit facing

her father, and settled herself in so solemn an attitude that it was
impossible not to read in it a mocking intention, crossing her arms

over the dainty trimmings of a pelerine a la neige, and ruthlessly
crushing its endless frills of white tulle. After a laughing side

glance at her old father's troubled face, she broke silence.
"I never heard you say, my dear father, that the Government issued its

instructions in its dressing-gown. However," and she smiled, "that
does not matter; the mob are probably not particular. Now, what are

your proposals for legislation, and your official introductions?"
"I shall not always be able to make them, headstrong girl!--Listen,

Emilie. It is my intention no longer to compromise my reputation,
which is part of my children's fortune, by recruiting the regiment of

dancers which, spring after spring, you put to rout. You have already
been the cause of many dangerous misunderstandings with certain

families. I hope to make you perceive more truly the difficulties of
your position and of ours. You are two-and-twenty, my dear child, and

you ought to have been married nearly three years since. Your brothers
and your two sisters are richly and happily provided for. But, my

dear, the expenses occasioned by these marriages, and the style of
housekeeping you require of your mother, have made such inroads on our

income that I can hardly promise you a hundred thousand francs as a
marriage portion. From this day forth I shall think only of providing

for your mother, who must not be sacrificed to her children. Emilie,
if I were to be taken from my family Madame de Fontaine could not be

left at anybody's mercy, and ought to enjoy the affluence which I have
given her too late as the reward of her devotion in my misfortunes.

You see, my child, that the amount of your fortune bears no relation
to your notions of grandeur. Even that would be such a sacrifice as I

have not hitherto made for either of my children; but they have
generously agreed not to expect in the future any compensation for the

advantage thus given to a too favored child."
"In their position!" said Emilie, with an ironical toss of her head.

"My dear, do not so depreciate those who love you. Only the poor are
generous as a rule; the rich have always excellent reasons for not

handing over twenty thousand francs to a relation. Come, my child, do
not pout, let us talk rationally.--Among the young marrying men have

you noticed Monsieur de Manerville?"
"Oh, he minces his words--he says Zules instead of Jules; he is always

looking at his feet, because he thinks them small, and he gazes at
himself in the glass! Besides, he is fair. I don't like fair men."

"Well, then, Monsieur de Beaudenord?"
"He is not noble! he is ill made and stout. He is dark, it is true.--

If the two gentlemen could agree to combine their fortunes, and the
first would give his name and his figure to the second, who should

keep his dark hair, then--perhaps----"
"What can you say against Monsieur de Rastignac?"

"Madame de Nucingen has made a banker of him," she said with meaning.
"And our cousin, the Vicomte de Portenduere?"

"A mere boy, who dances badly; besides, he has no fortune. And, after
all, papa, none of these people have titles. I want, at least, to be a

countess like my mother."
"Have you seen no one, then, this winter----"

"No, papa."
"What then do you want?"

"The son of a peer of France.
"My dear girl, you are mad!" said Monsieur de Fontaine, rising.

But he suddenly lifted his eyes to heaven, and seemed to find a fresh
fount of resignation in some religious thought; then, with a look of

fatherly pity at his daughter, who herself was moved, he took her
hand, pressed it, and said with deep feeling: "God is my witness, poor

mistaken child, I have conscientiously discharged my duty to you as a
father--conscientiously, do I say? Most lovingly, my Emilie. Yes, God

knows! This winter I have brought before you more than one good man,
whose character, whose habits, and whose temper were known to me, and

all seemed worthy of you. My child, my task is done. From this day
forth you are the arbiter of your fate, and I consider myself both

happy and unhappy at finding myself relieved of the heaviest of
paternal functions. I know not whether you will for any long time,

now, hear a voice which, to you, has never been stern; but remember
that conjugal happiness does not rest so much on brilliant qualities

and ample fortune as on reciprocal esteem. This happiness is, in its
nature, modest, and devoid of show. So now, my dear, my consent is

given beforehand, whoever the son-in-law may be whom you introduce to
me; but if you should be unhappy, remember you will have no right to

accuse your father. I shall not refuse to take proper steps and help
you, only your choice must be serious and final. I will never twice

compromise the respect due to my white hairs."
The affection thus expressed by her father, the solemn tones of his

urgent address, deeply touched Mademoiselle de Fontaine; but she
concealed her emotion, seated herself on her father's knees--for he

had dropped all tremulous into his chair again--caressed him fondly,
and coaxed him so engagingly that the old man's brow cleared. As soon

as Emilie thought that her father had got over his painful agitation,
she said in a gentle voice: "I have to thank you for your graceful

attention, my dear father. You have had your room set in order to
receive your beloved daughter. You did not perhaps know that you would

find her so foolish and so headstrong. But, papa, is it so difficult
to get married to a peer of France? You declared that they were

manufactured by dozens. At least, you will not refuse to advise me."
"No, my poor child, no;--and more than once I may have occasion to

cry, 'Beware!' Remember that the making of peers is so recent a force
in our government machinery that they have no great fortunes. Those

who are rich look to becoming richer. The wealthiest member of our
peerage has not half the income of the least rich lord in the English

Upper Chamber. Thus all the French peers are on the lookout for great
heiresses for their sons, wherever they may meet with them. The

necessity in which they find themselves of marrying for money will
certainly exist for at least two centuries.

"Pending such a fortunate accident as you long for--and this
fastidiousness may cost you the best years of your life--your

attractions might work a miracle, for men often marry for love in
these days. When experience lurks behind so sweet a face as yours it

may achieve wonders. In the first place, have you not the gift of
recognizing virtue in the greater or smaller dimensions of a man's

body? This is no small matter! To so wise a young person as you are, I
need not enlarge on all the difficulties of the enterprise. I am sure

that you would never attribute good sense to a stranger because he had
a handsome face, or all the virtues because he had a fine figure. And

I am quite of your mind in thinking that the sons of peers ought to
have an air peculiar to themselves, and perfectlydistinctive manners.

Though nowadays no external sign stamps a man of rank, those young men
will have, perhaps, to you the indefinable something that will reveal

it. Then, again, you have your heart well in hand, like a good
horseman who is sure his steed cannot bolt. Luck be with you, my

dear!"
"You are making game of me, papa. Well, I assure you that I would

rather die in Mademoiselle de Conde's convent than not be the wife of
a peer of France."

She slipped out of her father's arms, and proud of being her own
mistress, went off singing the air of Cara non dubitare, in the