years ago now since my old friend Clagny was forty-eight. He must therefore be sixty at present, and I would wager anything that his heart has never been at rest—never. You understand me?" And then in a lower tone, so that Bijou, who was just talking to Bertrade, should not hear, she added: "Neither his heart nor he himself."

Jean laughed.

"Oh, well! he's a curiosity this friend of yours. Why does he not go about in a show? He would get some money."

"He has no need of money."

"He is rich, then?"

"Atrociously rich!"

"Well, but what's he got?"

"Sixteen thousand a year. Don't you consider that a fair amount?"

"Yes," he answered, without any sign of enthusiasm, "yes, of course, that's very fair—for anyone who has not got it dishonestly." And then, after a pause, he asked: "What was this great trouble that he had?"

"Oh, I'll tell you about it when Bijou is not here."

The young girl, however, could scarcely have heard what they were saying. She was joking with Pierrot, who had just come into the room. She wanted to part his hair again, and Pierrot, a tall youth of seventeen, strong-looking, but overgrown, with long feet and hands, and a forehead covered with extraordinary bumps, was trying to make himself short, so that the young girl might reach up to his bushy, colourless hair. He was bending his head, and looking straight before him, with a far-away expression in his eyes, evidently enjoying having his hair stroked by the skilful little hands.

Madame de Bracieux, seeing that Bijou was at a safe distance, ventured in a low voice to tell her nephew the details about the love-affair, which had in a way changed the whole life of her friend, M. de Clagny.

Suddenly Denyse came across to the marchioness.

"Grandmamma—I forgot—the Dubuissons cannot come to dinner on Thursday, but M. Dubuisson will bring Jeanne on Friday, and leave her with us for a week."

"Well, then, we shall only be eighteen to dinner."

"No, we shall be twenty all the same; because I saw the Tourvilles, and I gave them an invitation from you; I thought that—"

"You did quite right."

"Oh!" exclaimed Bertrade, "the Tourvilles and the Juzencourts at the same time! We shall be sure, then, of hearing their stories of William the Conqueror and Charles the Bold!"

"Oh, well!" exclaimed Bijou, laughing, "it will be much better like that, we shall have it altogether, once for all, at any rate."

Just as dinner was announced, M. de Rueille entered the room. He had an absent-minded look, and his eyes shone strangely. He took his seat silently at table, and did not talk during the meal.

III.

Bijou, assisted by Pierrot, was handing the coffee round, when suddenly she darted off in pursuit of Paul de Rueille, who had just come out of the drawing-room, and was descending the steps which led on to the terrace.

"Stop, stop! Where are you going?" she called out.

"Oh, only for a stroll," he answered, without looking round, "to get a breath of air, if that is possible with this heat."

Bijou had already caught him up.

"Oh, no, what about the play?—You must come and work."

"My head aches."

"Work will take it away! You really must come, we have only three days."

"But I am not indispensable; you can do without me," said Rueille irritably.

"Oh, but you always do the writing."

"From dictation; it is not necessary to be very clever for that."

"Yes it is; and then, too, we are used to you."

She was on the step above him, and, bending forward, she put her arms round his neck, and said in a coaxing tone:

"Paul, dear, come now, just to please me, you would be so nice, so very nice!"

M. de Rueille, turning abruptly, unclasped the soft arms, which encircled his neck and rested against his face.

"All right, all right!" he said, in a hoarse voice, "I'll come!"

The young girl stepped back, and in the evening-light he could see her large astonished eyes shining as she gazed at him.

"How cross you are!" she said timidly. "What's the matter with you?" He did not answer, and she asked again: "Won't you tell me?"

"No, no," he said curtly, and then he re-mounted the steps and went into the drawing-room.

Bijou followed him, and whispered to Bertrade:

"I don't know what is the matter with your husband, but he is very bad-tempered."

Madame de Rueille glanced at Paul. He looked rather fagged and nervous, and was trying to appear at his ease, as he talked and laughed noisily with the tutor, who, on the contrary, was silent and reserved.

"Yes, certainly something is the matter with him," said Bertrade, rather uneasy at seeing her husband so strange. "I do not know at all what it is, though," she added.

"Only imagine," Bijou proceeded to explain to the whole room, "Paul wanted to go for a stroll instead of coming to work. Yes, and it was not very easy to get him here, I can assure you."

With a resigned look, M. de Rueille took his seat at a side table with a marble top. He then took up the manuscript, and, turning to the page which was commenced, dipped a long, quill pen into the ink.

"When you are ready?"—he said calmly.

"Well, but first of all, where are we?" asked M. de Jonzac.

"Scene three of the second act."

"Still?" exclaimed Bijou, astonished.

"Alas, yes."

"My dear children, you will never have it finished," remarked the marchioness.

"Oh, yes, grandmamma, we shall," said Bijou merrily; "you will see how we are going to work now. Come now, we are at the third scene of the second act,—it is where the poet is defending himself after the accusations—rather spiteful ones, too—which Venus has brought against him."

"Well, and what then?" asked M. de Rueille after a pause.

"Well," said Bijou, "in my opinion, we want a little couplet there; what do you think, Jean?"

Jean de Blaye, with an absorbed look on his face, was lounging in a deep arm-chair, his head thrown back on the cushions. He appeared to be in a reverie, and had not even heard the question.

"Are you asleep?" asked Bijou.

"Did you speak to me?" he asked, turning towards her.

"Why, yes, I did have the honour of speaking to you. I asked you whether a couplet would not be the right thing there—a couplet that would go to some well-known air?"

"Yes," he replied, in an absent sort of way, "that would do very well."

"All right, compose it then."

Jean gave a start; he was quite roused now.

"I am to compose it,—why should I be the one to do it?"

"Because you always do them."

"Well, that's a nice reason," protested Jean. "I should say that is precisely why it is someone else's turn. You have only to set the others to work—Henry, or Uncle Alexis, or M. Giraud, or even Pierrot."

"Why do you say even?" asked Pierrot, annoyed. "I should do them quite as well as you."

"Well, do them then! for my part, I have had enough of it."

"Jean," said Bijou, in a pleading tone, "don't leave us in the lurch, please."

She was going across to him, her pretty head bent forward, and a most comically beseeching little pout on her lips, when M. de Rueille rose abruptly from his seat, and stopped her on the way:

"Oh, he will do your couplets right enough; he likes doing them; sit down, Bijou."

The young girl stood still in the middle of the room, surprised at this extraordinary proceeding.

"But why don't