There were five or six women—­some pretty, all well bred—­who, in adopting the habit of thinking, had not lost the habit of laughing, nor the desire to please.  But they all seemed subject to the same charm; and that charm was sovereign.  Madame de Tecle, half hidden on her sofa, and seemingly busied with her embroidery, animated all by a glance, softened all by a word.  The glance was inspiring; the word always appropriate.  Her decision on all points they regarded as final—­as that of a judge who sentences, or of a woman who is beloved.

No verses were read that evening, and Camors was not bored.  In the intervals of the music, the conversation touched on the new comedy by Augier; the last work of Madame Sand; the latest poem of Tennyson; or the news from America.

“My dear Mopsus,” M. des Rameures said to the cure, “you were about to read us your sermon on superstition last Thursday, when you were interrupted by that joker who climbed the tree in order to hear you better.  Now is the time to recompense us.  Take this seat and we will all listen to you.”

The worthy cure took the seat, unfolded his manuscript, and began his discourse, which we shall not here report:  profiting by the example of our friend Sterne, not to mingle the sacred with the profane.

The sermon met with general approval, though some persons, M. des Rameures among them, thought it above the comprehension of the humble class for whom it was intended.  M. de Tecle, however, backed by republican Durocher, insisted that the intelligence of the people was underrated; that they were frequently debased by those who pretended to speak only up to their level—­and the passages in dispute were retained.

How they passed from the sermon on superstition to the approaching marriage of the General, I can not say; but it was only natural after all, for the whole country, for twenty miles around, was ringing with it.  This theme excited Camors’s attention at once, especially when the sub-prefect intimated with much reserve that the General, busied with his new surroundings, would probably resign his office as deputy.

“But that would be embarrassing,” exclaimed Des Rameures.  “Who the deuce would replace him?  I give you warning, Monsieur Prefect, if you intend imposing on us some Parisian with a flower in his buttonhole, I shall pack him back to his club—­him, his flower, and his buttonhole!  You may set that down for a sure thing—­”

“Dear uncle!” said Madame de Tecle, indicating Camors with a glance.

“I understand you, Elise,” laughingly rejoined M. des Rameures, “but I must beg Monsieur de Camors to believe that I do not in any case intend to offend him.  I shall also beg him to tolerate the monomania of an old man, and some freedom of language with regard to the only subject which makes him lose his sang froid.”

“And what is that subject, Monsieur?” said Camors, with his habitual captivating grace of manner.