“The supper is served, madame,” said she, with a respectful courtesy and a mechanical tone, and, plunging into the night, swam out at her own candle, shut the door, and, unlocking her face that moment, burst out radiant, and so to the kitchen, and, with a tear in her eye, set-to and polished all the copper stewpans with a vigor and expedition unknown to the new-fangled domestic.

“Partridges, mamma!  What next?”

“Pheasants, I hope,” cried the doctor, gayly.  “And after them hares; to conclude with royal venison.  Permit me, ladies.”  And he set himself to carve with zeal.

Now nature is nature, and two pair of violet eyes brightened and dwelt on the fragrant and delicate food with demure desire; for all that, when Aubertin offered Josephine a wing, she declined it.  “No partridge?” cried the savant, in utter amazement.

“Not to-day, dear friend; it is not a feast day to-day.”

“Ah! no; what was I thinking of?”

“But you are not to be deprived,” put in Josephine, anxiously.  “We will not deny ourselves the pleasure of seeing you eat some.”

“What!” remonstrated Aubertin, “am I not one of you?”

The baroness had attended to every word of this.  She rose from her chair, and said quietly, “Both you and he and Rose will be so good as to let me see you eat.”

“But, mamma,” remonstrated Josephine and Rose in one breath.

“Je le veux,” was the cold reply.

These were words the baroness uttered so seldom that they were little likely to be disputed.

The doctor carved and helped the young ladies and himself.

When they had all eaten a little, a discussion was observed to be going on between Rose and her sister.  At last Aubertin caught these words, “It will be in vain; even you have not influence enough for that, Rose.”

“We shall see,” was the reply, and Rose put the wing of a partridge on a plate and rose calmly from her chair.  She took the plate and put it on a little work-table by her mother’s side.  The others pretended to be all mouths, but they were all ears.  The baroness looked in Rose’s face with an air of wonder that was not very encouraging.  Then, as Rose said nothing, she raised her aristocratic hand with a courteous but decided gesture of refusal.

Undaunted Rose laid her palm softly on the baroness’s shoulder, and said to her as firmly as the baroness herself had just spoken,—­

“Il le veut.”

The baroness was staggered.  Then she looked with moist eyes at the fair young face, then she reflected.  At last she said, with an exquisite mixture of politeness and affection, “It is his daughter who has told me ‘Il le veut.’  I obey.”

Rose returning like a victorious knight from the lists, saucily exultant, and with only one wet eyelash, was solemnly kissed and petted by Josephine and the doctor.

Thus they loved one another in this great, old, falling house.  Their familiarity had no coarse side; a form, not of custom but affection, it went hand-in-hand with courtesy by day and night.