“I am not such a child!” exclaimed Aline, rising with a vexed air; “I know what I have seen.  They were talking a long time together in the drawing-room last evening, and I am sure they were speaking of me.”

Madame de Bergenheim burst into laughter, which increased her sister-in-law’s vexation, for she was less and less disposed to be treated like a young girl.

“Poor Aline!” said the Baroness, at last; “they were talking about the fifth portrait; Monsieur de Gerfaut can not find the name of the original among the old papers, and he thinks he did not belong to the family.  You know, that old face with the gray beard, near the door.”

The young girl bent her head, like a child who sees her naughty sister throw down her castle of cards.

“And how do you know?” said she, after a moment’s reflection.  “You were at the piano.  How could you hear at the other end of the room what Monsieur de Gerfaut was saying?”

It was Clemence’s turn to hang her head, for it seemed to her that the girl had suspected the constant attention which, under an affectation of indifference, never allowed her to lose one of Octave’s words.  As usual, she concealed her embarrassment by redoubling her sarcasm.

“Very likely,” said she, “I was mistaken, and you may be right after all.  What day shall we have the honor of saluting Madame la Vicomtesse de Gerfaut?”

“I foolishly told you what I imagined, and you at once make fun of me,” said Aline, whose round face lengthened at each word, and passed from rose-color to scarlet; “is it my fault that my brother said this?”

“I do not think it was necessary for him to speak of it, for you to think a great deal about the matter.”

“Very well; must one not think of something?”

“But one should be careful of one’s thoughts; it is not proper for a young girl to think of any man,” replied Clemence, with an accent of severity which would have made her aunt recognize with pride the pure blood of the Corandeuils.

“I think it is more proper for a young girl to do so than for a married woman.”

At this unexpected retort, Madame de Bergenheim lost countenance and sat speechless before the young maiden, like a pupil who has just been punished by his teacher.

“Where the devil did the little serpent get that idea?” thought Gerfaut, who was very ill at ease between the two wardrobes where he was concealed.

Seeing that her sister-in-law did not reply to her, Aline took this silence from confusion for an expression of bad temper, and at once became angry in her turn.

“You are very cross to-day,” said she; “good-by, I do not want your books.”

She threw the volumes of Waverley upon the sofa, picked up her watering-pot and went out, closing the door with a loud bang.  Madame de Bergenheim sat motionless with a pensive, gloomy air, as if the young girl’s remark had changed her into a statue.