“It is true that Mademoiselle Adrienne had in her look—­an expression—­a very uncommon expression for her age.”

“If she has kept what her witching, luring face promised, she must be very pretty by this time, notwithstanding the peculiar color of her hair—­for, between ourselves, if she had been a tradesman’s daughter, instead of a young lady of high birth, they would have called it red.”

“There again! more slander.”

“What! against Mademoiselle Adrienne?  Heaven forbid—­I always thought that she would be as good as pretty, and it is not speaking ill of her to say she has red hair.  On the contrary, it always appears to me so fine, so bright, so sunny, and to suit so well her snowy complexion and black eyes, that in truth I would not have had it other than it was; and I am sure, that now this very color of her hair, which would be a blemish in any one else, must only add to the charm of Mademoiselle Adrienne’s face.  She must have such a sweet vixen look!”

“Oh! to be candid, she really was a vixen—­always running about the park, aggravating her governess, climbing the trees—­in fact, playing all manner of naughty tricks.”

“I grant you, Mademoiselle Adrienne was a chip of the old block; but then what wit, what engaging ways, and above all, what a good heart!”

“Yes—­that she certainly had.  Once I remember she gave her shawl and her new merino frock to a poor little beggar girl, and came back to the house in her petticoat, and bare arms.”

“Oh, an excellent heart—­but headstrong—­terribly headstrong!”

“Yes—­that she was; and ’tis likely to finish badly, for it seems that she does things at Paris—­oh! such things—­”

“What things?”

“Oh, my dear; I can hardly venture—­”

“Fell, but what are they?”

“Why,” said the worthy dame, with a sort of embarrassment and confusion, which showed how much she was shocked by such enormities, “they say, that Mademoiselle Adrienne never sets foot in a church, but lives in a kind of heathen temple in her aunt’s garden, where she has masked women to dress her up like a goddess, and scratches them very often, because she gets tipsy—­without mentioning, that every night she plays on a hunting horn of massive gold—­all which causes the utmost grief and despair to her poor aunt the princess.”

Here the bailiff burst into a fit of laughter, which interrupted his wife.

“Now tell me,” said he, when this first access of hilarity was over, “where did you get these fine stories about Mademoiselle Adrienne?”

“From Rene’s wife, who went to Paris to look for a child to nurse; she called at Saint-Dizier House, to see Madame Grivois, her godmother.—­Now Madame Grivois is first bedchamber woman to the princess—­and she it was who told her all this—­and surely she ought to know, being in the house.”

“Yes, a fine piece of goods that Grivois! once she was a regular bad ’un, but now she professes to be as over-nice as her mistress; like master like man, they say.  The princess herself, who is now so stiff and starched, knew how to carry on a lively game in her time.  Fifteen years ago, she was no such prude:  do you remember that handsome colonel of hussars, who was in garrison at Abbeville? an exiled noble who had served in Russia, whom the Bourbons gave a regiment on the Restoration?”