We were all assembled in the salon as usual after dinner when M. Vergniaud was announced.  The little princess was radiant.  She had never been merrier in a school-girl frolic or more ready with gibe and jest and laughter.  She sang her best songs, putting her whole soul into them—­“Si tu savais comme je l’aime.”  Rene Vergniaud was so dazed that he came near bidding farewell to his senses for ever.  He evidently thought that all this brilliancy was for him, and was in such a rapture of delight that he never noticed Madame Le Fort’s repeated glances at the clock, and was only roused by the polite invitation to come again.  He was not too disconcerted to make a charming apology, like a true Parisian, and tore himself away.

Late as it was, as soon as we were in our own little parlor I could not forbear saying, “I was surprised at you to-night, Helen.  How could you run on so?  Madame Le Turc there, too! and you know the young French girls never open their lips to say more than ’Oui, monsieur’—­’Non, monsieur,’ to a gentleman.  What will M. Vergniaud think?”

“I don’t care what he thinks,” flinging herself down on an ottoman with her head in my lap; “but I do care what you think, Madame Fleming.  Did I behave so very badly?  I didn’t mean to, but I was resolved he should not get a chance to talk any nonsense to-night; and he did, after all.  I hate being made love to before a whole room full.  I had to laugh or else cry.”  And the little fairy dissolved in a shower of tears, like another Undine.

Another week went by.  On Saturday afternoon Helen asked, “Will you be so kind as to take me to the little Protestant church beyond the Arc d’Etoile this evening, Madame Fleming?  I should like so much to hear that good M. Bercier.”

“So should I. But you have not forgotten that M. Vergniaud will be here.”

“I am under no obligation to entertain Madame Le Fort’s callers.”

“But you know, Helen, that he comes for your sake.  It is well for you to consider that the future Madame Vergniaud will have in some respects a more brilliant position than perhaps any man in our country could offer you.”

“I know all that, and I don’t pretend to say that I should not like it.  I am ashamed of being so worldly, but to have a superb establishment and all this charming Parisian society, and give a grand ball whenever I liked, would be just paradise.  And to have it all in my grasp, and not be able to take it, is too aggravating.  It is so vexatious that the right man never has the right things.”

We went to church.  M. Vergniaud called, but recollected an engagement which took him away early.  Monday evening he dropped in again just after dinner:  “Do not let me derange you in the least, je vous en prie, madame.  I come early because I am engaged to three balls to-night.”