The fair Mdlle.  Roman wore the same dress, but her beauty unadorned was dazzling.  Standing by me she asked if I had thought about her horoscope.  I took her hand, made her sit on my knee, and promised that she should have it on the morrow.  I held her thus, pressing her charming breasts with my left hand, and imprinting fiery kisses on her lips, which she only opened to beg me to calm myself.  She was more astonished than afraid to see me trembling, and though she defended herself successfully she did not lose countenance for a moment, and in spite of my ardent gaze she did not turn her face away.  I calmed myself with an effort, and her eyes expressed the satisfaction of one who has vanquished a generous enemy by the force of reason.  By my silence I praised the virtue of this celestial being, in whose destiny I only had a part by one of those caprices of chance which philosophy seeks to explain in vain.

Madame Morin came up to me, and asked me to explain some points in her daughter’s horoscope.  She then told me that if I wanted to have four beauties at my ball she had only to write a couple of notes.

“I shall only see one beauty,” said I, looking at her niece.  “God alone knows,” said Valenglard, “what people will say in Grenoble!” “They will say it is your wedding ball,” said Madame Morin to her niece.

“Yes, and they will doubtless talk of my magnificent dress, my lace, and my diamonds,” said the niece, pleasantly.

“They will talk of your beauty, your wit, and your goodness,” I replied, passionately, “goodness which will make your husband a happy man.”

There was a silence, because they all thought I was alluding to myself.  I was doing nothing of the sort.  I should have been glad to give five hundred louis for her, but I did not see how the contract was to be drawn up, and I was not going to throw my money away.

We went to my bedroom, and while Mdlle.  Roman was amusing herself with looking at the jewellry on my toilette-table, her aunt and Valenglard examined the books on the table by my bedside.  I saw Madame Morin going to the window and looking closely at something she held in her hand.  I remembered I had left out the portrait of the fair nun.  I ran to her and begged her to give me the indecent picture I had so foolishly left about.

“I don’t mind the indecency of it,” she said, “but what strikes me is the exact likeness.”

I understood everything, and I shuddered at the carelessness of which I had been guilty.

“Madam,” I said, “that is the portrait of a Venetian, lady, of whom I was very found.”

“I daresay, but it’s very curious.  These two M’s, these cast-off robes sacrificed to love, everything makes my surprise greater.”

“She is a nun and named M——­ M——.”

“And a Welsh niece of mine at Camberi is also named M——­ M——­, and belongs to the same order.  Nay, more, she has been at Aix, whence you have come, to get cured of an illness.”