“You know very well that my aunt has forbidden you to read novels.”

“Oh! she does that just to annoy me and for no other reason.  Do you think that is right?  Must I remain an idiot, and never read anything but history and geography the rest of my life?  As if I did not know that Louis Thirteenth was the son of Henri Fourth, and that there are eighty-six departments in France.  You read novels.  Does it do you any harm?”

Clemence replied in a rather imperative tone, which should have put an end to the discussion.

“When you are married you can do as you like.  Until then you must leave your education in the hands of those who are interested in you.”

“All my friends,” replied Aline with a pout, “have relatives who are interested in them, at least as much as your aunt is in me, and they do not prevent their reading the books they like.  There is Claire de Saponay, who has read all of Walter Scott’s novels, Maleck-Adel, Eugenie and Mathilde—­and I do not know how many more; Gessner, Mademoiselle de Lafayette—­she has read everything; and I—­they have let me read Numa Ponzpilius and Paul and Virginia.  Isn’t that ridiculous at sixteen years of age?”

“Do not get excited, but go into the library and get one of Walter Scott’s novels; but do not let my aunt know anything about it.”

At this act of capitulation, by which Madame de Bergenheim doubtless wished to atone for her disagreeableness, Aline made one joyous bound for the glass door.  Gerfaut had barely time to leave his post of observation and to conceal himself between two wardrobes, under a cloak which was hanging there, when the young girl made her appearance, but she paid no attention to the pair of legs which were but imperfectly concealed.  She bounded down the stairs and returned a moment later with the precious volumes in her hand.

“Waverley, or, Scotland Sixty Years Ago,” said she, as she read the title.  “I took the first one on the shelf, because you are going to lend them all to me, one by one, are you not?  Claire says that a young girl can read Walter Scott, and that his books are very nice.”

“We shall see whether you are sensible,” replied Clemence, smiling; “but, above all things, do not let my aunt see these books, for I am the one who would get the scolding.”

“Do not worry;—­I will go and hide them in my room.”

She went as far as the door, then stopped and came back a few steps.

“It seems,” said she, “that Monsieur de Gerfaut worked in the library yesterday, for there are piles of books on the table.  It is very kind of him to be willing to make this tree, is it not?  Shall we both be in it?  Do they put women in such things?  I hope your aunt will not be there; she is not one of our family.”

Clemence’s face clouded again at the name of Gerfaut.

“I know no more about it than you,” she replied, a little harshly.

“The reason I asked is because there are only pictures of men in the drawing-room; it is not very polite on their part.  I should much prefer that there should be portraits of our grandmothers; it would be so amusing to see the beautiful dresses that they wore in those days rather than those old beards which frighten me.  But perhaps they do not put young girls in genealogical trees,” she continued, in a musing tone.