It is true the Chandores once upon a time were great feudal lords, and for a long time exhibited a profound contempt for all who could not boast of noble ancestors and a deep hatred of revolutionary ideas.  But if they had ever been formidable, they had long since ceased to be so.  Of the whole great family,—­one of the most numerous and most powerful of the province,—­only one member survived, the Baron de Chandore, and a girl, his granddaughter, betrothed to Jacques de Boiscoran.  Dionysia was an orphan.  She was barely three years old, when within five months, she lost her father, who fell in a duel, and her mother, who had not the strength to survive the man whom she had loved.  This was certainly for the child a terrible misfortune; but she was not left uncared for nor unloved.  Her grandfather bestowed all his affections upon her; and the two sisters of her mother, the Misses Lavarande, then already no longer young, determined never to marry, so as to devote themselves exclusively to their niece.  From that day the two good ladies had wished to live in the baron’s house; but from the beginning he had utterly refused to listen to their propositions, asserting that he was perfectly able himself to watch over the child, and wanted to have her all to himself.  All he would grant was, that the ladies might spend the day with Dionysia whenever they chose.

Hence arose a certain rivalry between the aunts and the grandfather, which led both parties to most amazing exaggerations.  Each one did what could be done to engage the affections of the little girl; each one was willing to pay any price for the most trifling caress.  At five years Dionysia had every toy that had ever been invented.  At ten she was dressed like the first lady of the land, and had jewelry in abundance.

The grandfather, in the meantime, had been metamorphosed from head to foot.  Rough, rigid, and severe, he had suddenly become a “love of a father.”  The fierce look had vanished from his eyes, the scorn from his lips; and both had given way to soft glances and smooth words.  He was seen daily trotting through the streets, and going from shop to shop on errands for his grandchild.  He invited her little friends, arranged picnics for her, helped her drive her hoops, and if needs be, led in a cotillion.

If Dionysia looked displeased, he trembled.  If she coughed, he turned pale.  Once she was sick:  she had the measles.  He staid up for twelve nights in succession, and sent to Paris for doctors, who laughed in his face.

And yet the two old ladies found means to exceed his folly.

If Dionysia learned any thing at all, it was only because she herself insisted upon it:  otherwise the writing-master and the music-master would have been sent away at the slightest sign of weariness.

Sauveterre saw it, and shrugged its shoulders.

“What a wretched education!” the ladies said.  “Such weakness is absolutely unheard of.  They tender the child a sorry service.”