I wonder after all if the Marquis will ever marry Victorine, as it seems, when he got back last night, he was in such a temper that he made a scene with the Baronne and his mother.  He said that Victorine made him look ridiculous, that she was unappetising, without wit, and ugly enough to have tranquillised St. Anthony at his worst moment of temptation—­whatever that means. (I overheard the Baronne tell all this to Heloise while the old Baron was making me compliments in his fearful English.) The Marquis stamped his foot, and finally, bursting into tears, announced that he would go to Paris, back to Adele—­whoever she is—­and find consolation!  So off he started this morning the first thing.  What a man, Mamma! crying like a child!

His mother and the Baronne are very anxious about him, as if he really decides to “jeter le manche apres la cognee,” who is to pay his debts!  The Baronne also said, that if “Elisabet” (that’s me) had only been married, it would have been all a simple matter; because then there would be no cause for him to despair, and he would not have occupied himself about an ordinary subject, like who they married him to in the meantime.  But, as it is, the contrast between us—­Victorine and me—­whom he cannot obtain—­is too great, and the sooner I am out of his sight the better!  It does sound all Greek, doesn’t it to you, Mamma?  I repeat it just as the Baronne said it.

[Sidenote:  Etiquette for the Fiances]

We went into the garden presently, and the Marquise and the Comte and I walked together; she had not got over the affair at dinner, and did nothing but laugh and joke about it.  She said that Victorine at all events will give the Marquis no anxieties in the future, but she is sure he will have to “se griser” to get through the wedding.  Fortunately Victorine was not with us, as Godmamma was too tired to accompany her; it would not have been proper for her to come with only her brother and sister-in-law, as her fiance, being supposed to be at Tournelle, she might have had private conversation with him not under Godmamma’s eye!

Oh! mustn’t it be awful to be French!  Heloise says it isn’t so bad as this in the smart set in Paris; they speak to one another there quite a lot before getting married, and do almost English things, but Godmamma is of the old school.

Before we left, the Marquis turned up, he looked thoroughly worn out and as piano as a beaten dog.  He was awfully polite to Jean and Heloise, and hardly looked at me, but as I did not want to leave with him still feeling cross with me, I got the chance at last to tell him I hoped he would be happy, and to congratulate him.  He bowed deeply and thanked me, and then under his breath, as he stooped to pick up a flower I had dropped, he said, “Vous avez brise mon coeur, et cela m’est egal ce qui arrive,”—­but I don’t believe it, Mamma, he has not got a heart to break, he is only a silly doll and worthy of Victorine.