“Monsieur l’abbe,” he said, “my whole ambition is to have a house like this.”  The old maid fancied a declaration lurked in that speech, and she lowered her eyes.  “You must enjoy it very much, mademoiselle,” added the viscount.

“How could it be otherwise?  It has been in our family since 1574, the period at which one of our ancestors, steward to the Duc d’Alencon, acquired the land and built the house,” replied Mademoiselle Cormon.  “It is built on piles,” she added.

Jacquelin announced dinner.  Monsieur de Troisville offered his arm to the happy woman, who endeavored not to lean too heavily upon it; she feared, as usual, to seem to make advances.

“Everything is so harmonious here,” said the viscount, as he seated himself at table.

“Yes, our trees are full of birds, which give us concerts for nothing; no one ever frightens them; and the nightingales sing at night,” said Mademoiselle Cormon.

“I was speaking of the interior of the house,” remarked the viscount, who did not trouble himself to observe Mademoiselle Cormon, and therefore did not perceive the dulness of her mind.  “Everything is so in keeping,—­the tones of color, the furniture, the general character.”

“But it costs a great deal; taxes are enormous,” responded the excellent woman.

“Ah! taxes are high, are they?” said the viscount, preoccupied with his own ideas.

“I don’t know,” replied the abbe.  “My niece manages the property of each of us.”

“Taxes are not of much importance to the rich,” said Mademoiselle Cormon, not wishing to be thought miserly.  “As for the furniture, I shall leave it as it is, and change nothing,—­unless I marry; and then, of course, everything here must suit the husband.”

“You have noble principles, mademoiselle,” said the viscount, smiling.  “You will make one happy man.”

“No one ever made to me such a pretty speech,” thought the old maid.

The viscount complimented Mademoiselle Cormon on the excellence of her service and the admirable arrangements of the house, remarking that he had supposed the provinces behind the age in that respect; but, on the contrary, he found them, as the English say, “very comfortable.”

“What can that word mean?” she thought.  “Oh, where is the chevalier to explain it to me?  ’Comfortable,’—­there seem to be several words in it.  Well, courage!” she said to herself.  “I can’t be expected to answer a foreign language—­ But,” she continued aloud, feeling her tongue untied by the eloquence which nearly all human creatures find in momentous circumstances, “we have a very brilliant society here, monsieur.  It assembles at my house, and you shall judge of it this evening, for some of my faithful friends have no doubt heard of my return and your arrival.  Among them is the Chevalier de Valois, a seigneur of the old court, a man of infinite wit and taste; then there is Monsieur le Marquis d’Esgrignon and Mademoiselle Armande, his sister” (she bit her tongue with vexation),—­“a woman remarkable in her way,” she added.  “She resolved to remain unmarried in order to leave all her fortune to her brother and nephew.”