Without waiting for his wife’s answer, M. Favoral brought his protege in front of Mlle. Gilberte.

“Dear daughter,” said he, “Monsieur Costeclar, the friend of whom I have spoken.”

M. Costeclar bowed still lower, and rounded off his shoulders again; but the young lady looked at him from head to foot with such a freezing glance, that his tongue remained as if paralyzed in his mouth, and he could only stammer out: 

“Mademoiselle! the honor, the humblest of your admirers.”

Fortunately Maxence was standing three steps off—­he fell back in good order upon him, and seizing his hand, which he shook vigorously: 

“I hope, my dear sir, that we shall soon be quite intimate friends.  Your excellent father, whose special concern you are, has often spoken to me of you.  Events, so he has confided to me, have not hitherto responded to your expectations.  At your age, this is not a very grave matter.  People, now-a-days, do not always find at the first attempt the road that leads to fortune.  You will find yours.  From this time forth I place at your command my influence and my experience; and, if you will consent to take me for your guide—­”

Maxence had withdrawn his hand.

“I am very much obliged to you, sir,” he answered coldly; “but I am content with my lot, and I believe myself old enough to walk alone.”

Almost any one would have lost countenance.  But M. Costeclar was so little put out, that it seemed as though he had expected just such a reception.  He turned upon his heels, and advanced towards M. Favoral’s friends with a smile so engaging as to make it evident that he was anxious to conquer their suffrages.

This was at the beginning of the month of June, 1870.  No one as yet could foresee the frightful disasters which were to mark the end of that fatal year.  And yet there was everywhere in France that indefinable anxiety which precedes great social convulsions.  The plebiscitum had not succeeded in restoring confidence.  Every day the most alarming rumors were put in circulation and it was with a sort of passion that people went in quest of news.

Now, M. Costeclar was a wonderfully well-posted man.  He had, doubtless, on his way, stopped on the Boulevard des Italiens, that blessed ground where nightly the street-brokers labor for the financial prosperity of the country.  He had gone through the Passage de l’Opera, which is, as is well known, the best market for the most correct and the most reliable news.  Therefore he might safely be believed.

Placing his back to the chimney, he had taken the lead in the conversation; and he was talking, talking, talking.  Being a “bull,” he took a favorable view of every thing.  He believed in the eternity of the second empire.  He sang the praise of the new cabinet:  he was ready to pour out his blood for Emile Ollivier.  True, some people complained that business was dull and slow;