"If she was not _gulled_, as you call it, she allowed me to think that she was. I shall see you again presently: I must get ready for breakfast."

M. de Rueille went up to his wife, and asked, in a half-timid way:

"You are angry with me about it?"

"I? why should I be angry about what you cannot help? You are in the same situation as Jean, M. Giraud, Henry, the accompaniment professor, Pierrot, and others that we don't know of, not to speak of the abbe, who, at present, is always to be found somewhere round about where Bijou is."

"Oh!"

"It's perfectly true; the only thing is that, as far as he is concerned, he is unconscious of it. Without understanding the why and wherefore, he, too, is captivated by Bijou's charms just the same as all the others who come near her. I am quite sure that he, too, will be unhappy about going away from here; but he will not be able to explain to himself even the cause of his unhappiness. Ah! there's the bell; I shall never be ready; you had better go on down."

"Pierrot," said the marchioness, after breakfast, when everyone had a.s.sembled in the morning-room, "you did not give me my book yesterday?"

Pierrot, who was talking to Bijou, turned round, somewhat taken aback.

"What book, aunt?"

"Dumas' novel for the cure."

"Ah, yes; I could not think what book you meant!"

"You forgot to do my errand?"

"Not at all! but Pellerin hadn't it."

"Oh, why--he always has everything one wants!"

"Well, he hadn't got that; and, what was better still, he didn't seem to know the book at all!"

"Nonsense!"

"No, it's quite true! and he's an obstinate sort of beggar, too, he would have it that it wasn't by the father--what's his name? ah! I've forgotten already."

"Dumas!"

"Dumas! yes, that's it; and he kept on saying all the time, 'I know my Dumas well enough, and that book was never written by him.' Well, anyhow, he promised to try to get it, and to send it to you if it is to be had."

M. de Rueille was sorting out the letters, which had arrived during breakfast-time.

"Here's a letter from your bookseller, grandmamma," he said; "he evidently has not been able to get it."

"Open it, Paul, will you?"

Rueille tore open the envelope, and, taking out the letter, read as follows:

"MADAM,--It is quite impossible to get the book which your nephew asked for. As we were anxious to execute your order, we sent to several of the princ.i.p.al booksellers, and even wired to Paris, but we were informed that there is not, and there never has been, a book ent.i.tled, 'Le Baton de M.

Molard.'"

"Le Baton de M. Molard?" repeated the marchioness, not understanding in the least. "What is he talking about?" and then, all at once, the explanation of the mystery dawned upon her, and she exclaimed, in consternation: "Ah, I see! 'Le Baton de M. Molard' is 'Le Batard de Mauleon,' translated by Pierrot into his own language. I was quite right in wanting to write the t.i.tle for him, but he would not hear of it."

M. de Jonzac turned his eyes up towards the ceiling with a tragic gesture of despair.

"He is incorrigible--absolutely hopeless," he said, half laughing and half vexed.

"I can't help it, I am as I was made," said Pierrot, blushing furiously and very much annoyed. "And then, too, I didn't know what I was doing yesterday; we were almost upset going into Pont-sur-Loire."

"Almost upset?" exclaimed Madame de Bracieux, "upset! why, how?"

"Because Bijou had the insane idea of wanting to go down the Rue Rabelais with the coach; and so M. de Clagny went--the old fool."

"Stop! that's enough!" interrupted the marchioness; "will you kindly speak more respectfully when you have anything to say about my old friend Clagny?"

"Well, all the same, your old friend hasn't got his head screwed on very well, considering his age. He might have killed us; and, besides that, I can tell you we did kick up a shindy in the Rue Rabelais. The coach sc.r.a.ped against the curb-stones; all the kids were running along nearly under the horses' heels; then the sound of the horn brought all the women to the windows, and didn't they exclaim when they saw what it was. That part wasn't so bad, either, for there were some jolly pretty ones, I can tell you; weren't there, Paul?"

As M. de Rueille appeared to be preoccupied, and did not answer, Pierrot turned to the abbe.

"Weren't there, M. Courteil?"

"I don't know," answered the abbe, with evident sincerity; "I was not noticing."

Pierrot did not intend to give in.

"Oh, well, Bijou noticed them anyhow, for I can tell you she _did_ look at them, and with eyes as sharp as needles, too; they shone like anything."

"I?" she exclaimed, her pretty face turning suddenly red. "It was your fancy, Pierrot; I never saw anything. I was much too frightened."

"Frightened of what?" asked the marchioness.

"Why, of being upset, grandmamma. Pierrot is right about that; we were nearly upset."

"He is right, too, in saying that it was an insane idea to want to go with a carriage and four horses down a wretched little street like that; however could you have had such an idea?"

Bijou glanced at Jeanne Dubuisson, who, with her eyes fixed on the carpet, had turned very red, too, and was listening to the discussion without taking any part in it.

"Oh, really, I don't know. I think it was M. de Clagny telling me that his horses were so well in hand that he could make them turn round on a plate. And so, as the Rue Rabelais is rather narrow and winding, I said: 'I am sure you could not go along Rue Rabelais.'"

"No!" protested Pierrot, "it was not quite like that. You said, 'Let us go down Rue Rabelais, I should like to see it.' And, then, as he hesitated--for we may as well give him credit for having hesitated--you stuck to it as hard as you could."

"But," put in M. de Jonzac, seeing that Denyse looked annoyed, "what interest could your cousin possibly have in wanting to go down that street?"

"That's what I wondered," said Pierrot, looking puzzled; and then, suddenly taken with another idea, he added: "I can tell you there was somebody who didn't like it, and that was M. de Bernes. I don't know what took him, but he did pull a long face. Oh, my! I can tell you he did look blue."

Henry de Bracieux laughed.

"I know why he was pulling such a long face, poor old Bernes; he was afraid of being blown up--"