In the midst of all this turmoil and bustle Norbert and Marie grew sadder and sadder as each day passed on.  One day M. de Puymandour heard so astounding a piece of intelligence that he hurried into the drawing-room, where he knew that he should find the lovers (as he styled them) together.

“Well, my children,” exclaimed he, “you have set such an excellent example, that everybody seems disposed to copy you, and the mayor and the priest will be kept to their work rather tightly this year.”

His daughter tried to put on an appearance of interest at this speech.

“Yes,” continued M. de Puymandour, “I have just heard of a marriage that will come off almost directly after yours has been celebrated, and will make a stir, I can assure you.”

“And whose is that, pray?”

“You are acquainted, I presume,” returned the father, addressing himself to Norbert, “with the son of the Count de Mussidan?”

“What, the Viscount Octave?”

“The same.”

“He lives in Paris, does he not?”

“Yes, generally; but he has been staying at Mussidan, and in the short space of a week has managed to lose his heart here; and to whom do you think?  Come, give a guess.”

“We cannot think who it can be, my dear father,” said Marie, “and we are devoured with curiosity.”

“It is reported that the Viscount de Mussidan has proposed for the hand of Mademoiselle de Laurebourg.”

“Why,” remarked Marie, “it is only three weeks since her brother died!”

Norbert flushed scarlet, and then turned a livid white; so great was his agitation at hearing this news, that he nearly dropped the album which he held in his hand.

“I like the Viscount,” continued M. de Puymandour, “while Mademoiselle Diana is a charming girl.  She is very handsome, and, I believe, has many talents; and she is a good model for you to copy, Marie, as you are so soon to become a duchess.”

When he got upon his favorite hobby, it was very difficult to check M. de Puymandour.  His daughter, therefore, waited until he had concluded, and then left the room, under the pretext of giving an order to the servants.  The Count hardly noticed her absence, as he had still Norbert at his mercy.

“Reverting again to Mademoiselle Diana,” said he:  “she looks charming in black, for women should look upon a death in the family as a most fortunate occurrence; but I ought not to be praising her to you, who are so well acquainted with her.”

“I?” exclaimed Norbert.

“Yes, you.  I do not suppose that you intend to deny that you have had a little flirtation with her?”

“I do not understand you.”

“Well, I do then, my boy; I heard all about your making love to her.  Why, you are really blushing!  What is up now?”

“I can assure you——­”

De Puymandour burst into a loud laugh.

“I have heard a good deal of your little country walks, and all the pretty things that you used to say to each other.”