“Godmamma, with what eyes do you think Monsieur Felix sees me?”

“He appreciates you, my little angel; I shall pray to God for both of you.”

“If you knew how happy I am that my father can do a service to Monsieur Thuillier, and how I wish I could be useful to your brother—­”

“In short,” said Celeste, laughing, “you love us all.”

“Well, yes,” replied Felix.

True love wraps itself in the mysteries of reserve, even in its expression; it proves itself by itself; it does not feel the necessity, as a false love does, of lighting a conflagration.  By an observer (if such a being could have glided into the Thuillier salon) a book might have been made in comparing the two scenes of love-making, and in watching the enormous preparations of Theodose and the simplicity of Felix:  one was nature, the other was society, —­the true and the false embodied.  Noticing her daughter glowing with happiness, exhaling her soul through the pores of her face, and beautiful with the beauty of a young girl gathering the first roses of an indirect declaration, Flavie had an impulse of jealousy in her heart.  She came across to Celeste and said in her ear:—­

“You are not behaving well, my daughter; everybody is observing you; you are compromising yourself by talking so long to Monsieur Felix without knowing whether we approve of it.”

“But, mamma, my godmother is here.”

“Ah! pardon me, dear friend,” said Madame Colleville; “I did not notice you.”

“You do as others do,” said the poor nonentity.

That reply stung Madame Colleville, who regarded it as a barbed arrow.  She cast a haughty glance at Felix and said to Celeste, “Sit there, my daughter,” seating herself at the same time beside Madame Thuillier and pointing to a chair on the other side of her.

“I will work myself to death,” said Felix to Madame Thuillier.  “I’ll be a member of the Academy of Sciences; I’ll make some great discovery, and win her hand by force of fame.”

“Ah!” thought the poor woman to herself, “I ought to have had a gentle, peaceful, learned man like that.  I might have slowly developed in a life of quietness.  It was not thy will, O God! but, I pray thee, unite and bless these children; they are made for one another.”

And she sat there, pensive, listening to the racket made by her sister-in-law—­a ten-horse power at work—­who now, lending a hand to her two servants, cleared the table, taking everything out of the dining-room to accommodate the dancers, vociferating, like the captain of a frigate on his quarter-deck when taking his ship into action:  “Have you plenty of raspberry syrup?” “Run out and buy some more orgeat!” “There’s not enough glasses.  Where’s the ‘eau rougie’?  Take those six bottles of ‘vin ordinaire’ and make more.  Mind that Coffinet, the porter, doesn’t get any.”  “Caroline, my girl, you are to wait at the sideboard; you’ll have tongue and ham to slice in case they dance till