Morange slowly raised his head and looked at his daughter.  And a smile returned to his eyes, still moist with tears.  Day by day his adoration increased.  As Reine grew up he found her more and more like her mother, and all his thoughts became centred in her.  His one yearning was that she might be very beautiful, very happy, very rich.  That would be a sign that he was forgiven—­that would be the only joy for which he could yet hope.  And amid it all there was a vague feeling of jealousy at the thought that a husband would some day take her from him, and that he would remain alone in utter solitude, alone with the phantom of his dead wife.

“Married?” he murmured; “oh! not yet.  She is only fourteen.”

At this the others expressed surprise:  they would have taken her to be quite eighteen, so womanly was her precocious beauty already.

“As a matter of fact,” resumed her father, feeling flattered, “she has already been asked in marriage.  You know that the Baroness de Lowicz is kind enough to take her out now and then.  Well, she told me that an arch-millionnaire had fallen in love with Reine—­but he’ll have to wait!  I shall still be able to keep her to myself for another five or six years at least!”

He no longer wept, but gave a little laugh of egotistical satisfaction, without noticing the chill occasioned by the mention of Seraphine’s name; for even Beauchene felt that his sister was hardly a fit companion for a young girl.

Then Marianne, anxious at seeing the conversation drop, began, questioning Valentine, while Gervais at last slyly crept to her knees.

“Why did you not bring your little Andree?” she inquired.  “I should have been so pleased to kiss her.  And she would have been able to play with this little gentleman, who, you see, does not leave me a moment’s peace.”

But Seguin did not give his wife time to reply.  “Ah! no, indeed!” he exclaimed; “in that case I should not have come.  It is quite enough to have to drag the two others about.  That fearful child has not ceased deafening us ever since her nurse went away.”

Valentine then explained that Andree was not really well behaved.  She had been weaned at the beginning of the previous week, and La Catiche, after terrorizing the household for more than a year, had plunged it by her departure into anarchy.  Ah! that Catiche, she might compliment herself on all the money she had cost!  Sent away almost by force, like a queen who is bound to abdicate at last, she had been loaded with presents for herself and her husband, and her little girl at the village!  And now it had been of little use to take a dry-nurse in her place, for Andree did not cease shrieking from morning till night.  They had discovered, too, that La Catiche had not only carried off with her a large quantity of linen, but had left the other servants quite spoilt, disorganized, so that a general clearance seemed necessary.