He, too, had been modern, that conqueror of the Trocadero, when he entered Madrid in 1822 on the staff of the Duke of Angouleme.  And she, too, old Aunt Louise, had been modern, very modern, the day when, from a window of the Palace of the Tuileries, during a military parade, she had murmured this phrase in her mother’s ear:  “Mamma, there is the one I love.”

“Ah, how cowardly we are!” exclaimed Marceline, abruptly, changing her tone.  “Yes, how cowardly we are to love them—­those, those dreadful men, who know so little how to care for us.  I say that for Gontran.  What was he doing while I was telling you my sorrows, Aunt Louise?  Quite calmly taking a trip around the world.  But let him speak now, let him speak, especially as I cannot any more.  In all my life I have never made so long a speech.  Speak, sir; why were you going round the world?”

“Because your mother, on the morning of the day before you departed for Aix-les-Bains, had had a very long conversation with me.”

“And she had said to you?”

“She had said to me, ’Put a stop to this; marry her or go away, and let her not hear of you again till her marriage.’  And as I had for some time been debating whether to take a little trip to Japan, I started for Japan.”

“He started for Japan!  That goes without saying.  You hear him, Aunt Louise; he admits that this time last year he preferred to expatriate himself rather than marry me.  So there he was in America, in China, and in Japan.  This lasted ten months; from time to time, humbly and timidly, I asked for news of him.  He was very well; his last letter was from Shanghai, or Sidney, or Java.  For me, not a word, not a remembrance—­nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing!”

“I had promised your mother.  One day at Yokohama I had bought you a lot of fascinating little things.  The box was done up and addressed to you when I remembered my promise.  I sent all those Japaneseries to your mother, thinking that you would have your share of the spoil.”

“I had nothing at all.  The arrival of the box was kept a secret.  It would have been necessary to have pronounced your name before me, and mamma didn’t wish that.  On the other hand, there was always one name on her lips—­Courtalin.  Still Courtalin, and always Courtalin.  He had all qualities, all virtues.  Then he had just lost his aunt in Brittany, and he had inherited something.  It was thought that he would only have a quarter of the property, and he had had three-quarters.  Besides, it was a country-seat, and all around this seat, an admirable domain, sixteen or seventeen hundred hectares.  I say it to my shame, Aunt Louise, to my great shame, the thought of giving in came to me; and then, to be absolutely frank, it rather pleased me to become a duchess; so mamma made me out a list of all possible husbands for me, and there was no other duke in the list but M. de Courtalin.  There was, of course, the little Count of Limiers, who would be duke some