“Why,” broke in Mathieu, “I told you he had gone shooting yesterday evening.  He slept, no doubt, at Puymoreau, the other side of Chantebled, so as to be in the woods at daybreak this morning, and he probably won’t be home till to-morrow.”

“Ah! yes, I remember now.  Well, it’s nice weather to be in the woods.”

This, however, was another perilous subject, and Marianne regretted having broached it, for, truth to tell, one never knew where Beauchene might really be when he claimed to have gone shooting.  He availed himself so often of this pretext to absent himself from home that Constance was doubtless aware of the truth.  But in the presence of that household, whose union was so perfect, she was determined to show a brave front.

“Well, you know,” said she, “it is I who compel him to go about and take as much exercise as possible.  He has a temperament that needs the open air.  Shooting is very good for him.”

At this same moment there came another ring at the door, announcing another visitor.  And this time it was Madame Morange who entered the room, with her daughter Reine.  She colored when she caught sight of Madame Beauchene, so keenly was she impressed by that perfect model of wealth and distinction, whom she ever strove to imitate.  Constance, however, profited by the diversion of Valerie’s arrival to declare that she unfortunately could not remain any longer, as a friend must now be waiting for her at home.

“Well, at all events, leave us Maurice,” suggested Mathieu.  “Here’s Reine here now, and all six children can play a little while together.  I will bring you the boy by and by, when he has had a little snack.”

But Maurice had already once more sought refuge among his mother’s skirts.  And she refused the invitation.  “Oh! no, no!” said she.  “He has to keep to a certain diet, you know, and he must not eat anything away from home.  Good-by; I must be off.  I called only to inquire after you all in passing.  Keep well; good-by.”

Then she led her boy away, never speaking to Valerie, but simply shaking hands with her in a familiar, protecting fashion, which the other considered to be extremely distinguished.  Reine, on her side, had smiled at Maurice, whom she already slightly knew.  She looked delightful that day in her gown of thick blue cloth, her face smiling under her heavy black tresses, and showing such a likeness to her mother that she seemed to be the latter’s younger sister.

Marianne, quite charmed, called the girl to her:  “Come and kiss me, my dear!  Oh! what a pretty young lady!  Why, she is getting quite beautiful and tall.  How old is she?”

“Nearly thirteen,” Valerie replied.

She had seated herself in the armchair vacated by Constance, and Mathieu noticed what a keen expression of anxiety there was in her soft eyes.  After mentioning that she also had called in passing to make inquiries, and declaring that both mother and children looked remarkably well, she relapsed into gloomy silence, scarcely listening to Marianne, who thanked her for having come.  Thereupon it occurred to Mathieu to leave her with his wife.  To him it seemed that she must have something on her mind, and perhaps she wished to make a confidante of Marianne.