The first two, a boy born in 1826 and a daughter in 1827, were a disappointment to the old soldier.  They were too reasonable, too “grown-up” before they were children, but in Renee, who was born after an interval of eight years, M. Mauperin found ample consolation.  His heart revelled in her pranks and merry laughter, and she grew up the pet of her father, whose affection she returned with all her heart.  She was now twenty; her brother Henri, serious, studious, plodding and determined to make a career, was a lawyer, and had made some reputation by his articles on statistical subjects; and Henriette, her elder sister, had found a husband in M. Davarande, whose wealth and position allowed her to devote herself to the life of empty amusement, divided mainly between long rounds of calls, the opera, and the Bois, which filled the days of the moneyed Paris bourgeoisie of that time.

Madame Mauperin, delighted with Henriette’s match, was anxious to find an equally suitable partner for Renee; but the high-spirited girl had a will of her own, and seemed to take almost a pleasure in crossing her mother’s transparent matrimonial schemes.  Quite a number of eligible young men had been introduced to the house at La Briche—­and had left it without having furthered their suit.  Reverchon had now been invited with similar intentions, and Renee was no more amenable than before.  While her mother filled the young man’s ears with praise of her accomplishments, the wayward girl, with her charming ingenuous talk, did her best to demonstrate her lack of those negative conventional virtues that were expected from a well-educated French girl in those days.  She made Madame Mauperin turn first crimson, then pale, when she finally proceeded to cut Denoisel’s hair in the drawing-room after dinner.

Denoisel was the son of Mauperin’s bosom friend, who had fought by his side in many battles, and who on his death-bed had made him his son’s guardian.  Mauperin became more than a guardian to the boy—­he became his father.  When Henri and Henriette were born, it seemed to Denoisel that he had been given a brother and sister; but he adored the baby Renee, and he alone succeeded in making her listen and obey.

“Sometimes,” said Henri to Denoisel as they travelled back to Paris, “my sister’s follies are harmless enough; but to-night ... before that fellow ...  I am sure the marriage will fall through.  And such an excellent match!”

“You think so?  I began to fear for her.  And that’s why I lent myself to her prank.  He is too hopelessly commonplace—­a tailor’s dummy!  He would never have understood her.  Your sister ought to marry a man of intelligence and character.”

And Madame Mauperin, as she prepared for bed, lectured her husband upon acceding to all his favourite’s whims.

“Another marriage missed!  Henri spoke to me this evening.  He is sure Reverchon will not have her.”

“Well, what of it?”