The new household will be installed on the floor above.  The photography will be continued, unless Revolt should produce enormous receipts. (The Visionary may be trusted to see to that.) In any case, the father will still remain near them; he has a good place at his stockbroker’s office, some expert business in the courts; provided that the little ship continue to sail in deep enough water, all will go well, with the aid of wave, wind, and star.

Only one question preoccupies M. Joyeuse:  “Will Andre’s parents consent to this marriage?  How will Dr. Jenkins, so rich, so celebrated, take it?”

“Let us not speak of that man,” said Andre, turning pale; “he is a wretch to whom I owe nothing—­who is nothing to me.”

He stops, embarrassed by this explosion of anger, which he was unable to restrain and cannot explain, and goes on more gently: 

“My mother, who comes to see me sometimes in spite of the prohibition laid upon her, was the first to be told of our plans.  She already loves Mlle. Elise as her daughter.  You will see, mademoiselle, how good she is, and how beautiful and charming.  What a misfortune that she belongs to such a wicked man, who tyrannizes over her, and tortures her even to the point of forbidding her to utter her son’s name.”

Poor Maranne heaves a sign that speaks volumes on the great grief which he hides in the depths of his heart.  But what sadness would not have been vanquished in presence of that dear face lighted up with its fair curls and the radiant perspective of the future?  These serious questions having been settled, they are able to open the door and recall the two exiles.  In order to avoid filling their little heads with thoughts above their age, it has been agreed to say nothing about the prodigious event, to tell them nothing except that they have all to make haste and dress, breakfast still more quickly, so as to be able to spend the afternoon in the Bois, where Maranne will read his play to them, before they go on to Suresnes to have dinner at Kontzen’s:  a whole programme of delights in honour of the acceptance of Revolt, and of another piece of good news which they will hear later.

“Ah, really—­what is it, then?” ask the two little girls, with an innocent air.

But if you fancy they don’t know what is in the air, if you think that when Mlle. Elise used to give three raps on the ceiling they imagined that it was for information on business, you are more ingenuous even than le pere Joyeuse.

“That’s all right—­that’s all right, children; go and dress, in any case.”

Then there begins another refrain: 

“What frock must I put on, Bonne Maman—­the gray?”

“Bonne Maman, there is a string off my hat.”

“Bonne Maman, my child, have I no more starched cravats left?”

For ten minutes the charming grandmother is besieged with questions and entreaties.  Every one needs her help in some way; it is she who had the keys of everything, she who gives out the pretty, white, fine goffered linen, the embroidered handkerchiefs, the best gloves, all the dainty things which, taken out from drawers and wardrobes, spread over the bed, fill a house with a bright Sunday gaiety.