“Why, he is the tenth!  Renee will get an awful reputation.  She will see when she is thirty ... and you too.”  Then, after a pause, “And now about your son.  He is twenty-nine now.  He, at any rate, has no objection to marriage.  Have you ever thought of finding him a suitable wife?”

She continued to talk and to grumble until Mauperin fell asleep.

“Henri is reasonable enough, but he is a young man, and you know the danger.  It’s driving me mad!  What do you think of trying Madame Rosieres?”

There was no reply.  Madame Mauperin resigned herself to silence, and turned to find the sleep which only came with morning.

II.—­Plots and Plays

Next morning Madame Mauperin proceeded to Paris, and drove to her son’s apartments in the Rue Taitbout.  She found him at work.  After some beating about the bush she approached the object of her visit.

“I fear,” she began, “that you must have some reason for ...”

“For not marrying, isn’t it?  My dear mother, you need not worry.  I know that wealth is needed for a successful career, and that the best and most honourable way to obtain it is a good marriage.  And I am determined to make a career.  I shall get married soon enough... and better, perhaps, than you think.”

At La Briche, meanwhile, M. Mauperin vainly tried to be stern with his pet.

“I have done it purposely,” she said.

“And why?”

“Because I love you better than that young gentleman who was in no way sympathetic to me.  You are ungrateful.”

“But listen, my dear child!  Fathers are egotists, and would prefer to keep their children.  But I am old, and I should not like to part without seeing you married, a mother, with affections that will replace mine.”

“Oh, this is wicked!  Never, never!” she exclaimed; “let me cry alone for a minute.”  And she left the room hurriedly.

When she returned after a while, she found Denoisel in the room.

“You have been out?  And where have you been?”

“Well, if you want to know, I have been to church to pray that I may die before father.  I knelt before a statue of the Virgin.  And, you may laugh, but it seemed to me that she nodded at my request.  And it made me quite happy.”

The conversation drifted to gayer topics, and the two soon fell into their wonted tone of banter.  “Tell me, Renee,” said Denoisel, “have you never felt, I won’t say love, but some sentiment for anybody?”

“Never.  That sort of thing only occurs when the heart is empty.  But when it is defended by the affection one feels for a father—­as a child I felt perhaps the beginning of that emotion of which one reads in novels.  And do you know for whom?”

“No.”

“For you.  Oh, only for a moment.  I soon loved you differently for having corrected the spoilt child of its faults, for having directed my attention to noble and beautiful things.  And I resolved to repay you by true friendship.”