“We have fallen very low,” said Laurence.

“Children,” said the old marquis, taking them by the hand and going to the lawn, then covered by a slight fall of snow; “you will be angry at the prudent advice of an old man, but I am bound to give it, and here it is:  If I were you I would employ as go-between some trustworthy old fellow—­like myself, for instance; I would commission him to ask Malin for a million of francs for the title-deeds of Gondreville; he would gladly consent if the matter were kept secret.  You will then have capital in hand, an income of a hundred thousand francs, and you can buy a fine estate in another part of France.  As for Cinq-Cygne, it can safely be left to the management of Monsieur d’Hauteserre, and you can draw lots as to which of you shall win the hand of this dear heiress —­But ah!  I know the words of an old man in the ears of the young are like the words of the young in the ears of the old, a sound without meaning.”

The old marquis signed to his three relatives that he wished no answer, and returned to the salon, where, during their absence, the abbe and his sister had arrived.

The proposal to draw lots for their cousin’s hand had offended the brothers, while Laurence revolted in her soul at the bitterness of the remedy the old marquis counselled.  All three were now less gracious to him, though they did not cease to be polite.  The warmth of their feeling was chilled.  Monsieur de Chargeboeuf, who felt the change, cast frequent looks of kindly compassion on these charming young people.  The conversation became general, but the old marquis still dwelt on the necessity of submitting to events, and he applauded Monsieur d’Hauteserre for his persistence in urging his sons to take service under the Empire.

“Bonaparte,” he said, “makes dukes.  He has created Imperial fiefs, he will therefore make counts.  Malin is determined to be Comte de Gondreville.  That is a fancy,” he added, looking at the Simeuse brothers, “which might be profitable to you—­”

“Or fatal,” said Laurence.

As soon as the horses were put-to the marquis took leave, accompanied to the door by the whole party.  When fairly in the carriage he made a sign to Laurence to come and speak to him, and she sprang upon the foot-board with the lightness of a swallow.

“You are not an ordinary woman, and you ought to understand me,” he said in her ear.  “Malin’s conscience will never allow him to leave you in peace; he will set some trap to injure you.  I implore you to be careful of all your actions, even the most unimportant.  Compromise, negotiate; those are my last words.”

The brothers stood motionless behind their cousin and watched the berlingot as it turned through the iron gates and took the road to Troyes.  Laurence repeated the old man’s last words.  But sage experience should not present itself to the eyes of youth in a berlingot, colored stockings, and a queue.  These ardent young hearts had no conception of the change that had passed over France; indignation crisped their nerves, honor boiled with their noble blood through every vein.