The day after he had received a favorable reply from the Duke, M. de Puymandour thought that it was time to inform his daughter of his intentions.  He never thought that she would make any opposition, and, of course, supposed that she would be as delighted as he was at the honor that awaited her.  He was seated in a magnificently furnished room which he called his library when he arrived at this conclusion, and ringing the bell, ordered the servant to inquire of mademoiselle’s maid if her mistress could grant him an interview.  He gave this curious message, which did not appear to surprise the servant in the least, with an air of the utmost importance.  The communication between the father and daughter was always carried on upon this basis; and scoffers wickedly asserted that M. de Puymandour had modelled it upon a book of etiquette, for the guidance of her household, written by a venerable arch-duchess.

Shortly after the man had departed on his errand, a little tap came to the door.

“Come in,” exclaimed M. de Puymandour.

And Mademoiselle Marie ran in and gave her father a kiss upon each cheek.  He frowned slightly, and extricated himself from her embrace.

“I thought it better to come to you, my dear father,” said she, “than to give you the trouble of coming all the way to me.”

“You always forget that there are certain forms and ceremonies necessary for a young lady of your position.”

Marie gave a little gentle smile, for she was no stranger to her father’s absurd whims; but she never thwarted them, for she was very fond of him.  She was a very charming young lady, and in the description that the Duke had given of her to his son, he had not flattered her at all.  Though she differed greatly in appearance from Mademoiselle de Laurebourg, Marie’s beauty was perfect in a style of its own.  She was tall and well proportioned, and had all that easy grace of movement, characteristic of women of Southern parentage.  Her large soft dark eyes offered a vivid contrast to her creamy complexion; her hair, in utter disregard of the fashionable mode of dressing, was loosely knotted at the back of her head.  Her nature was soft and affectionate, capable of the deepest devotion, while she had the most equable temper that can be imagined.

“Come, my dear papa,” said she; “do not scold me any more.  You know that the Marchioness of Arlanges has promised to teach me how to behave myself according to all the rules of fashionable society next winter, and I declare to you that I will so practise them up in secret, that you will be astonished when you behold them.”

“How woman-like!” muttered her father.  “She only scoffs at matters of the most vital importance.”

He rose from his seat, and, placing his back to the fireplace, took up an imposing position, one hand buried in his waistcoat, and the other ready to gesticulate as occasion required.

“Oblige me with your deepest attention,” commenced he.  “You were eighteen years of age last month, and I have an important piece of intelligence to convey to you.  I have had an offer of marriage for you.”