of a very ancient aristocratic race, the last of the Vaugelades, whose blood was poor and whose mind was narrow.  Her mother, an ardent Catholic, had only succeeded in making of her one who, while following religious practices, was eager for the joys of the world.  Seguin, since his marriage, had likewise practised religion, because it was fashionable to do so.  His peasant grandfather had had ten children; his father, the army contractor, had been content with six; and he himself had two, a boy and a girl, and deemed even that number more than was right.

One part of Seguin’s fortune consisted of an estate of some twelve hundred acres—­woods and heaths—­above Janville, which his father had purchased with some of his large gains after retiring from business.  The old man’s long-caressed dream had been to return in triumph to his native village, whence he had started quite poor, and he was on the point of there building himself a princely residence in the midst of a vast park when death snatched him away.  Almost the whole of this estate had come to Seguin in his share of the paternal inheritance, and he had turned the shooting rights to some account by dividing them into shares of five hundred francs value, which his friends eagerly purchased.  The income derived from this source was, however, but a meagre one.  Apart from the woods there was only uncultivated land on the estate, marshes, patches of sand, and fields of stones; and for centuries past the opinion of the district had been that no agriculturist could ever turn the expanse to good account.  The defunct army contractor alone had been able to picture there a romantic park, such as he had dreamt of creating around his regal abode.  It was he, by the way, who had obtained an authorization to add to the name of Seguin that of Du Hordel—­taken from a ruined tower called the Hordel which stood on the estate.

It was through Beauchene, one of the shareholders of the shooting rights, that Mathieu had made Seguin’s acquaintance, and had discovered the old hunting-box, the lonely, quiet pavilion, which had pleased him so much that he had rented it.  Valentine, who good-naturedly treated Marianne as a poor friend, had even been amiable enough to visit her there, and had declared the situation of the place to be quite poetical, laughing the while over her previous ignorance of it like one who had known nothing of her property.  In reality she herself would not have lived there for an hour.  Her husband had launched her into the feverish life of literary, artistic, and social Paris, hurrying her to gatherings, studios, exhibitions, theatres, and other pleasure resorts—­all those brasier-like places where weak heads and wavering hearts are lost.  He himself, amid all his passion for show, felt bored to death everywhere, and was at ease only among his horses; and this despite his pretensions with respect to advanced literature and philosophy, his collections of curios, such as the bourgeois of to-day does not