“What is this collection?”

“A corbeille!”

“What’s a corbeille?”

Annabel crossed her hands in desperation.  “Oh, haven’t you been in Paris long enough to know what a corbeille is?  It’s the collection of gifts a bridegroom makes for his bride.  He puts his taste, his sentiment, his”—­she waved her fingers in the air—­“as well as his money, into it.  A corbeille shows what a man is.  He must have been collecting it ever since he came to France.  I feel proud of him.  I want to pat him on his dear old back!”

Not having him there to pat she patted me.

“You are going to be married?”

“Who said I was going to be married?”

“Isn’t this your corbeille?”

Annabel lifted herself to my ear.

“It was Madame de Ferrier’s!”

“What!”

“I’m sure of it!”

“Who bought it?”

“Count de Chaumont, of course.”

“Was Madame de Ferrier going to marry him?”

“Who wouldn’t marry a man with such a corbeille?”

“Was she?”

“Don’t grind your teeth at your dearest Annabel.  She hadn’t seen it, but it must have decided her.  I am sure he intended to marry Madame de Ferrier, and he does most things he undertakes to do.  That inconsiderate wretch of a Marquis de Ferrier—­to spoil such a corbeille as this!  But Lazarre!” She patted her gloved hands.  “Here’s the consolation:—­my father will be obliged to turn his corbeille into my trousseau when I am married!”

“What’s a trousseau?”

“Goose!  It’s a bride’s wardrobe, I knew he had something in this cabinet, but he never left the key in the door until to-day.  He was so completely upset when the De Ferriers came into Paris!”

“Are they in Paris?”

“Yes, at their own hotel.  The old marquis has posted here to thank the emperor!  The emperor is away with the troops, so he is determined at least to thank the empress at the assembly to-night.”

“Will Madame de Ferrier go to the Tuileries?”

“Assuredly.  Fancy how furious my father must be!”

“May I enter?” said the humblest of voices outside the door.

We heard a shuffling step.

Annabel made a face and clenched her hands.  The sprite was so harmless I laughed at her mischief.  She brought in Doctor Chantry as she had brought me, to behold the corbeille; covering her father’s folly with transparent fabrications, which anybody but the literal Briton must have seen through.  He scarcely greeted me at all, folding his hands, pale and crushed, the sharp tip of his nose standing up more than ever like a porcelain candle-extinguisher, while I was anxious to have him aside, to get my money and take my leave.

“See this beautiful corbeille, Doctor Chantry!  Doesn’t it surprise you Lazarre should have such taste?  We are going this morning to the mayor of the arrondissement.  Nothing is so easy as civil marriage under the Empire!  Of course the religious sacrament in the church of the Capuchins follows, and celebrating that five minutes before midnight, will make all Paris talk!  Go with us to the mayor, Doctor Chantry!”