From the honest fellow’s tone as he spoke thus, one felt that to him this grandparent’s title applied to such an embodiment of attractive youth seemed the most natural thing in the world.  Every one else thought as he did on the point; both her sisters, who had hastened to their father’s side, grouping themselves round him somewhat as in the portrait exhibited in the window on the ground floor, and the old servant who placed on the table in the little drawing-room a magnificent tea-service, a relic of the former splendours of the household.  Every one called the girl “Bonne Maman” without her ever once having grown tired of it, the influence of that sacred title touching the affection of each one with a deference which flattered her and gave to her ideal authority a singular gentleness of protection.

Whether or not it were by reason of this appellation of grandmother which as a child he had learned to reverence, de Gery felt an inexpressible attraction towards this young girl.  It was not like the sudden shock which he had received from that other, that emotional agitation in which were mingled the desire to flee, to escape from a possession and the persistent melancholy of the morrow of a festivity, extinguished candles, the lost refrains of songs, perfumes vanished into the night.  In the presence of this young girl as she stood superintending the family table, seeing if anything were wanting, enveloping her children, her grandchildren, with the active tenderness of her eyes, there came to him a longing to know her, to be counted among her old friends, to confide to her things which he confessed only to himself; and when she offered him his cup of tea without any of the mincings of society or drawing-room affectations, he would have liked to say with the rest a “Thank you, Bonne Maman,” in which he would have put all his heart.

Suddenly, a cheerful knock at the door made everybody start.

“Ah, here comes M. Andre.  Elise, a cup quickly.  Jaia, the little cakes.”  At the same time, Mlle. Henriette, the third of M. Joyeuse’s daughters, who had inherited from her mother, nee de Saint-Amand, a certain instinct for society, observing the number of visitors who seemed likely to crowd their rooms that evening, rushed to light the two candles on the piano.

“My fifth act is finished,” cried the newcomer as he entered, then he stopped short.  “Ah, pardon,” and his face assumed a rather discomfited expression in the presence of the stranger.  M. Joyeuse introduced them to each other:  “M.  Paul de Gery—­M.  Andre Maranne,” not without a certain solemnity.  He remembered the receptions held formerly by his wife, and the vases on the chimneypiece, the two large lamps, the what-not; the easy chairs grouped in a circle had an air of joining in this illusion, and seemed more brilliant by reason of this unaccustomed throng.

“So your play is finished?”

“Finished, M. Joyeuse, and I hope to read it to you one of these evenings.”