“He bears:  per fesse argent and azure; on the first, three combs gules, two and one, crossed by three bunches grapes purpure, leaved vert, one and two; on the second, four feathers or, placed fretwise, with Servir for motto, and a squire’s helmet.  It is not much; it seems they were ennobled under Louis XIV.; some mercer was doubtless their grandfather, and the maternal line must have made its money in wines; the du Ronceret whom the king ennobled was probably an usher.  But if you get rid of Arthur and marry du Ronceret, I promise you he shall be a baron at the very least.  But you see, my dear, you’ll have to soak yourself for five or six years in the provinces if you want to bury La Schontz in a baroness.  That queer creature has been casting looks at you, the meaning of which is perfectly clear.  You’ve got him.”

“No,” replied Aurelie, “when my hand was offered to him he remained, like the brandies I read of to-day in the market reports, dull.”

“I will undertake to decide him—­if he is drunk.  Go and see where they all are.”

“It is not worth while to go; I hear no one but Bixiou, who is making jokes to which nobody listens.  But I know my Arthur; he feels bound to be polite, and he is probably looking at Bixiou with his eyes shut.”

“Let us go back, then.”

“Ah ca!” said Madame Schontz, suddenly stopping short, “in whose interest shall I be working?”

“In that of Madame de Rochefide,” replied Maxime, promptly.  “It is impossible to reconcile her with Rochefide as long as you hold him.  Her object is to recover her place as head of his household and the enjoyment of four hundred thousand francs a year.”

“And she offers me only two hundred thousand!  I want three hundred thousand, since the affair concerns her.  What! haven’t I taken care of her brat and her husband?  I have filled her place in every way—­and does she think to bargain with me?  With that, my dear Maxime, I shall have a million; and if you’ll promise me the chief-justiceship at Alencon, I can hold my own as Madame du Ronceret.”

“That’s settled,” said Maxime.

“Oh! won’t it be dull to live in that little town!” cried Aurelie, philosophically.  “I have heard so much of that province from d’Esgrignon and the Val-Noble that I seem to have lived there already.”

“Suppose I promise you the support of the nobility?”

“Ah!  Maxime, you don’t mean that?—­but the pigeon won’t fly.”

“And he is very ugly with his purple skin and bristles for whiskers; he looks like a wild boar with the eyes of a bird of prey.  But he’ll make the finest chief-justice of a provincial court.  Now don’t be uneasy! in ten minutes he shall be singing to you Isabelle’s air in the fourth act of Robert le Diable:  ’At thy feet I kneel’—­you promise, don’t you? to send Arthur back to Beatrix?”

“It will be difficult; but perseverance wins.”