“A charming heretic at all events,” said he, “or rather two charming heretics.  You should see the two sisters on horseback in the Bois, with two little grooms behind them not higher than that.”

“Come, Paul, tell us all you know.  Describe the ball of which you speak.  How did you happen to go to a ball at these Americans?”

“By the greatest chance.  My Aunt Valentine was at home that night; I looked in about ten o’clock.  Well, Aunt Valentine’s Wednesdays are not exactly scenes of wild enjoyment, I give you my word!  I had been there about twenty minutes when I caught sight of Roger de Puymartin escaping furtively.  I caught him in the hall and said: 

“‘We will go home together.’

“‘Oh!  I am not going home.’

“‘Where are you going?’

“‘To the ball.’

“‘Where?’

“‘At Mrs. Scott’s.  Will you come?’

“‘But I have not been invited.’

“‘Neither have I’

“‘What! not invited?’

“‘No.  I am going with one of my friends.’

“‘And does your friend know them?’

“’Scarcely; but enough to introduce us.  Come along; you will see Mrs. Scott.’

“‘Oh!  I have seen her on horseback in the Bois.’

“’But she does not wear a low gown on horseback; you have not seen her shoulders, and they are shoulders which ought to be seen.  There is nothing better in Paris at this moment.’

“And I went to the ball, and I saw Mrs. Scott’s red hair, and I saw Mrs. Scott’s white shoulders, and I hope to see them again when there are balls at Longueval.”

“Paul!” said Madame de Lavardens, pointing to the Abbe.

“Oh!  Monsieur l’Abbe, I beg a thousand pardons.  Have I said anything?  It seems to me—­”

The poor old priest had heard nothing; his thoughts were elsewhere.  Already he saw, in the village streets, the Protestant pastor from the castle stopping before each house, and slipping under the doors little evangelical pamphlets.

Continuing his account, Paul launched into an enthusiastic description of the mansion, which was a marvel—­

“Of bad taste and ostentation,” interrupted Madame de Lavardens.

“Not at all, mother, not at all; nothing startling, nothing loud.  It is admirably furnished, everything done with elegance and originality.  An incomparable conservatory, flooded with electric light; the buffet was placed in the conservatory under a vine laden with grapes, which one could gather by handfuls, and in the month of April!  The accessories of the cotillon cost, it appears, more than 400,000 francs.  Ornaments, ‘bon-bonnieres’, delicious trifles, and we were begged to accept them.  For my part I took nothing, but there were many who made no scruple.  That evening Puymartin told me Mrs. Scott’s history, but it was not at all like Monsieur de Larnac’s story.  Roger said that, when quite little, Mrs. Scott had been stolen from her family by some acrobats, and that her father had found her in a travelling circus, riding on barebacked horses and jumping through paper hoops.”