herself superior in birth, or fortune, or grace, and some question of marriage, or precedence, or any of the feminine rivalries, is raised.  The “Thank you, mademoiselle,” which Bathilde said to Pierrette was a poem in many strophes.  She was named Bathilde, and the other Pierrette.  She was a Chargeboeuf, the other a Lorrain.  Pierrette was small and weak, Bathilde was tall and full of life.  Pierrette was living on charity, Bathilde and her mother lived on their means.  Pierrette wore a stuff gown with a chemisette, Bathilde made the velvet of hers undulate.  Bathilde had the finest shoulders in the department, and the arm of a queen; Pierrette’s shoulder-blades were skin and bone.  Pierrette was Cinderella, Bathilde was the fairy.  Bathilde was about to marry, Pierrette was to die a maid.  Bathilde was adored, Pierrette was loved by none.  Bathilde’s hair was ravishingly dressed, she had so much taste; Pierrette’s was hidden beneath her Breton cap, and she knew nothing of the fashions.  Moral, Bathilde was everything, Pierrette nothing.  The proud little Breton girl understood this tragic poem.

“Good-evening, little girl,” said Madame de Chargeboeuf, from the height of her condescending grandeur, and in the tone of voice which her pinched nose gave her.

Vinet put the last touch to this sort of insult by looking fixedly at Pierrette and saying, in three keys, “Oh! oh! oh! how fine we are to-night, Pierrette!”

“Fine!” said the poor child; “you should say that to Mademoiselle de Chargeboeuf, not to me.”

“Oh! she is always beautifully dressed,” replied the lawyer.  “Isn’t she, Rogron?” he added, turning to the master of the house, and grasping his hand.

“Yes,” said Rogron.

“Why do you force him to say what he does not think?” said Bathilde; “nothing about me pleases him.  Isn’t that true?” she added, going up to Rogron and standing before him.  “Look at me, and say if it isn’t true.”

Rogron looked at her from head to foot, and gently closed his eyes like a cat whose head is being scratched.

“You are too beautiful,” he said; “too dangerous.”

“Why?”

Rogron looked at the fire and was silent.  Just then Mademoiselle Habert entered the room, followed by the colonel.

Celeste Habert, who had now become the common enemy, could only reckon Sylvie on her side; nevertheless, everybody present showed her the more civility and amiable attention because each was undermining her.  Her brother, though no longer able to be on the scene of action, was well aware of what was going on, and as soon as he perceived that his sister’s hopes were killed he became an implacable and terrible antagonist to the Rogrons.