“How so, I should like to know?”

“He paid you a visit, and you will be returning it!”

M. Charnot tossed his head, like a father who, though he may not be convinced, yet admits that he is beaten.

As for me, Jeanne, I’m beginning to believe in the fairies again.

CHAPTER XVIII

A COOL RECEPTION

August 3d.

I have made another visit to the Rue de l’Universite.  They have decided to make the trip.  I leave for Bourges tomorrow, a day in advance of M. and Mademoiselle Charnot, who will arrive on the following morning.

I am sent on first to fulfil two duties:  to engage comfortable rooms at the hotel—­first floor with southern aspect—­and then to see my uncle and prepare him for his visitors.

I am to prepare him without ruffling him.  Jeanne has sketched my plan of campaign.  I am to be the most affectionate of nephews, though he show himself the crustiest of uncles; to prevent him from recurring to the past, to speak soberly of the present, to confess that Mademoiselle Charnot is aware of my feelings for her, and shows herself not entirely insensible to them; but I am to avoid giving details, and must put off a full explanation until later, when we can study the situation together.  M. Mouillard can not fail to be appeased by such deference, and to observe a truce while I hint at the possibility of a family council.  Then, if these first advances are well received, I am to tell him that M. Charnot is actually travelling in the neighborhood, and, without giving it as certain, I may add that if he stops at Bourges he may like to return my uncle’s visit.

There my role ends.  Jeanne and M. Charnot will do the rest.  It is with Jeanne, by the light of her eyes and her smile, that M. Mouillard is “to study the situation;” he will have to struggle against the redoubtable arguments of her youth and beauty.  Poor man!

Jeanne is full of confidence.  Her father, who has learned his lesson from her, feels sure that my uncle will give in.  Even I, who can not entirely share this optimism, feel that I incline to the side of hope.

When I reached home, the porter handed me two cards from Larive.  On the first I read: 

Ch.  Larive,
Managing Clerk. 
P. P. C.

The second, on glazed cardboard, announced, likewise in initials, another piece of news: 

Ch.  Larive,
Formerly Managing Clerk. 
P. F. P. M.

So the Parisian who swore he could not exist two days in the country is leaving Paris.  That was fated.  He is about to be married; I’m sure I don’t object.  The only consequence to me is that we never shall meet again, and I shall not weep over that.

Bourges, August 4th.