Monsieur de Moras, who was coming in at that very moment, shared, indeed, with a very limited number of friends of the family, the privilege of accompanying Clotilde occasionally on her visits to Julia’s convent.

“Well, my good Pierre,” resumed the baroness, “we were speaking of Julia, and I was telling my son-in-law that it was really quite fortunate that she was willing to become a saint, because otherwise she would certainly set Paris on fire!”

“Because?” asked the count.

“Because she is beautiful as Sin!”

“Undoubtedly she is quite good-looking,” said the count somewhat coldly.

The baroness having gone out on some errands with Clotilde, Monsieur de Moras remained alone with Lucan.

“It really seems to me,” he said to the latter, “that our poor Julia is being very harshly treated.”

“In what way?”

“Her grandmother speaks of her as of a perverse creature!  And what fault do they find with her after all?  Her worship of her father’s memory!  It is excessive, I grant; but filial piety, even when exaggerated, is not a vice, that I know of.  Her sentiments are exalted; what does it matter if they are generous?  Is that a reason why she should be devoted to the infernal divinities and thrust out of the way to be forgotten?”

“But you are very strange, my friend, I assure you,” said Lucan.  “What is the matter with you? whom do you mean to blame?  You are certainly aware that Julia proposes taking the vail wholly of her own accord; that her mother is distressed about it, and that she has spared no effort to dissuade her from that step.  As to myself, I have no reason whatever to be fond of her; she has caused and is still causing me much grief; but you know well enough that I have ever been ready to greet her as my daughter, if she had deigned to return to us.”

“Oh!  I accuse neither her mother nor yourself, of course; it is the baroness who irritates me; she is unnatural!  Julia is her grandchild after all, and she rejoices—­she positively rejoices—­at the prospect of seeing her a nun!”

“Ma foi, I declare to you that I am not far from rejoicing too.  The situation is too painful for Clotilde; it must be brought to an end; and as I see no other possible solution—­”

“But I beg your pardon; there might be another.”

“And which?”

“She might marry.”

“How likely! and marry—­whom, pray?”

The count approached nearer to Lucan, looked him straight in the face, and smiling with some embarrassment: 

“Me!” he said.

“Repeat that!” said Lucan.

“Mon cher,” rejoined the count, “you see that I am as red as a peony; spare me.  I have wished for a long time to broach that delicate question to you, but my courage has failed me; since I have found it, at last, don’t deprive me of it.”

“My dear friend,” said Lucan, “allow me to recover a little first, for I am falling from the clouds.  What! you are in love with Julia?”