“By-the-way, he ate trout?” interrupted M. Moriaz; “it does honour to your discernment.”

“You had better ask Antoinette,” replied she, “if that very evening I did not praise the handsome stranger.  She maintained that he stooped, and that his head was badly poised; would you believe it?—­his head badly poised!  Ah!  I was sure it would end so.  Do you wish to prove my discernment?  Shall I tell you where your letter comes from that contains such excellent news?  The count wrote it; he has at last proposed.  I guessed it at once.  Ah! monsieur, I sympathize in your joy.  He is, indeed, the son-in-law that I have dreamed of for you.  A superior man, so open-hearted, so unaffected and frank!”

“Do you really think so?” asked M. Moriaz, fanning himself with the letter.

“He related to us his whole life,” rejoined she, in a pedantic tone.  “How many people could do as much?”

“A delightful narration.  I only regret that he was silent concerning one detail which was of a nature to interest us.”

“An unpleasant detail?” she asked, raising her gooseberry-coloured eyes to him.

“On the contrary, a circumstance that does him honour, and for which I am obliged to him.  Believe me, my dear demoiselle, I should be charmed to receive a son-in-law from your hands, and to give my daughter to a man whose genius and noble sentiments you divined from merely seeing him eat.  Unfortunately, I fear this marriage will not come about; there is one little difficulty.”

“What?”

“Count Larinski forgot to apprise us that he was already married.”

Mlle. Moiseney sent forth a doleful cry.  M. Moriaz handed her Mme. de Lorcy’s letter; after reading it, she remained in a state of deep dejection; a pitiless finger had burst the iris bubble that she had just blown, and that she saw resplendent at the end of her pipe.

“Do not give way to your despair,” said M. Moriaz; “take courage, follow the example I set you, imitate my resignation.  But tell me, how do you think Antoinette will take the matter?”

“It will be a terrible blow to her,” replied Mlle. Moiseney; “she loves him so much!”

“How do you know, since she has not judged it best to tell you?”

“I know from circumstances.  Poor dear Antoinette!  The greatest consideration must be used in announcing to her this intelligence; and I alone, I believe—­”

“I agree with you,” M. Moriaz hastened to interpose; “you alone are capable of operating on our patient without causing her suffering.  You are so skilful! your hand is so light!  Make the best of the situation, mademoiselle—­I leave it to you.”

With these words he took up his hat and cane, and hastened to get away, rather anxious about what had passed, yet feeling too happy, too much rejoiced, to be a good consoler.

It was not long before Mlle. Moriaz returned from her walk.  She came humming a ballad; she was joyous, her complexion brilliant, her eyes sparkling, and she carried an armful of heather and ferns.  Mlle. Moiseney went to meet her, her face mournful, her head bent down, her glance tearful.