“Mademoiselle,” he cried, out of breath, “Monsieur l’abbe sends you an express, the son of Mere Grosmort, with a letter.  The lad left Alencon before daylight, and he has just arrived; he ran like Penelope!  Can’t I give him a glass of wine?”

“What can have happened, Josette?  Do you think my uncle can be—­”

“He couldn’t write if he were,” said Josette, guessing her mistress’s fears.

“Quick! quick!” cried Mademoiselle Cormon, as soon as she had read the first lines.  “Tell Jacquelin to harness Penelope—­ Get ready, Josette; pack up everything in half an hour.  We must go back to town—­”

“Jacquelin!” called Josette, excited by the sentiment she saw on her mistress’s face.

Jacquelin, informed by Josette, came in to say,—­

“But, mademoiselle, Penelope is eating her oats.”

“What does that signify?  I must start at once.”

“But, mademoiselle, it is going to rain.”

“Then we shall get wet.”

“The house is on fire!” muttered Josette, piqued at the silence her mistress kept as to the contents of the letter, which she read and reread.

“Finish your coffee, at any rate, mademoiselle; don’t excite your blood; just see how red you are.”

“Am I red, Josette?” she said, going to a mirror, from which the quicksilver was peeling, and which presented her features to her upside down.

“Good heavens!” thought Mademoiselle Cormon, “suppose I should look ugly!  Come, Josette; come, my dear, dress me at once; I want to be ready before Jacquelin has harnessed Penelope.  If you can’t pack my things in time, I will leave them here rather than lose a single minute.”

If you have thoroughly comprehended the positive monomania to which the desire of marriage had brought Mademoiselle Cormon, you will share her emotion.  The worthy uncle announced in this sudden missive that Monsieur de Troisville, of the Russian army during the Emigration, grandson of one of his best friends, was desirous of retiring to Alencon, and asked his, the abbe’s hospitality, on the ground of his friendship for his grandfather, the Vicomte de Troisville.  The old abbe, alarmed at the responsibility, entreated his niece to return instantly and help him to receive this guest, and do the honors of the house; for the viscount’s letter had been delayed, and he might descend upon his shoulders that very night.

After reading this missive could there be a question of the demands of Prebaudet?  The keeper and the gardener, witnesses to Mademoiselle Cormon’s excitement, stood aside and awaited her orders.  But when, as she was about to leave the room, they stopped her to ask for instructions, for the first time in her life the despotic old maid, who saw to everything at Prebaudet with her own eyes, said, to their stupefaction, “Do what you like.”  This from a mistress who carried her administration to the point of counting her fruits, and marking them so as to order their consumption according to the number and condition of each!