"Yes, M. David," continued Mme. Descoutures, "I was so beautiful when I was seventeen, that I made a great sensation. I remember well one little incident. Sundays, when the men on the estate had worked particularly well during the week, my father used to put me in a chair just inside the gate, and let them come up and look at me as a reward."

Grenoble interrupted her: "And was that all the reward they received? Your father must have been a great joker."

Corinne flushed with indignation; but, before she could annihilate him with her contempt, he had left her and was chatting in another group, leaving her M. David for a victim.

It was at Mme. Descoutures's house in Paris, that this took place six weeks later. June had arrived, and, in spite of the open windows, it was very hot in the drawing-rooms, filled with guests. Laviguerie was deeply interested in a game of chess. Germaine, near him, was replying absently to the questions addressed her from time to time. Odette, alone, was carrying on a lively conversation, while Claude was talking in a gay group of artists. Paul and Mme. Sirvin had not left home this evening.

"By the way," said Mme. Bricourt suddenly to Odette, "is your husband ill?"

"Not in the least, Madame."

"I am very glad to hear it. As we never meet him any where nowadays, I was afraid he was sick."

It was not the first time this question had been asked Odette. Lately, their friends had noticed that Odette went every where, as usual, but that her husband was seldom seen with her. Her reply was always that Paul was very busy, and that Mme. Sirvin was not quite as well as usual.

The venerable Mme. Bricourt had no time to push her investigations further at present, as Grenoble's voice rose above all the others, and all turned to listen. He was maliciously drawing out M. Amable Bricourt, to expose his ignorance to the best advantage.

"Ah! you lean to the realistic school? By Jove! you are right! That is true art! The day of idealism is past. It has been laid on the shelf with the paintings of Ingres and Delacroix. As Zola shows us in l'Assommoir, truth is only found in poverty and degradation. Realism has one advantage over idealism, more people understand it. For instance: I am sure M. David is a realist. Am I not right?"

The banker stepped forward and said with great pomposity:

"I am proud to do all I can to encourage art."

"But, my dear sir, you should not!" interrupted Grenoble. "What we need nowadays is to have art discouraged! Just think of the thousands of dollars paid for paintings alone every year; and not one in a hundred is worth the canvas it is painted on. Nine-tenths of the painters decide on art for a profession, because it pays better than a clerkship."

M. David subsided into a chair by Odette. He was a coarse, vulgar man, who had made several millions on Change. Originally from Bruges, he had bought a title of nobility, and was called Count David of Bruges—by his servants. He spoke little, thinking that his money spoke for him, and went through the world self-satisfied and contented, never noticing that he was a continual source of amusement to his acquaintances by his pretensions to nobility and his pompous vanity and conceit.

He had once proposed to Odette, and since her return to Paris, had been very attentive to her, which irritated Grenoble beyond endurance; so that now, as he saw him sit down at her side, he followed him, and standing before him, said: "I must make a portrait bust of you some day. Do not look so horrified! I shall not charge you any thing for it."

"I always pay promptly for every thing," answered the banker, very much annoyed. "Every one will tell you that Count David—"

"Never makes a mistake in his accounts. I can well understand that!"

Odette smiled. M. David growled to himself: "These artists are so insolent. M. Grenoble, I was speaking of you the other day to a friend, recommending you, in fact; but he seemed to think you were so little known—"

"Alas!" modestly replied the famous sculptor, "it is not granted to all to have their names in every mouth, as yours is!"

This little scene passed unnoticed. Odette, after receiving a glance from Claude, rose and went to her sister, leaving M. David a prey to melancholy.

"Can you come with us?" Mme. Frager asked her sister.

At this moment Laviguerie cried: "Checkmate!" and rose from the chess table.

"Papa has finished," Odette added, taking Germaine's arm. "So you are free. Will you come?" Then she whispered: "By the way, how is your little Bessie?"

"Very well, thank you."

There was quite a little bustle and confusion as the large party took leave, M. David and several others saying good-night at the same time. There were only seven or eight guests left after they had disappeared.

"Mme. Frager grows prettier every day," said M. Amable Bricourt, twisting his moustache.

"Her face and figure are perfection. What a pity! what a pity!" and Mme. Bricourt cast her eyes up to the ceiling, with an expression of the most angelic sympathy and sorrow.

"Why! is there any thing wrong?" asked one of the ladies, with great curiosity.

All turned to listen. Corinne said: "Dear Mme. Bricourt, tell us what they say, so we can all know how to defend her—if it becomes necessary—our dear Odette."

The venerable Mme. Bricourt settled back in her arm-chair, and in the sweetest, softest tones, said:

"They are so wicked to spread these calumnies about her. She is a good, pure woman. I have my opinion of slanderers, and always avoid them when I can. They say she goes out a great deal with her father-in-law. Well, why shouldn't she? Only a very wicked person could see any thing wrong in that M. Frager is very busy; almost as tireless in his studies and work as my estimable son himself. So I think it very natural that M. Sirvin should be her escort. They ask, too, where all the money comes from to dress Odette so extravagantly; for M. Frager, you know, has a very small income. I protest against these malicious conclusions, with all my heart; but they reply that M. Sirvin and Mme. Frager are always together, often alone, at balls and parties, at the opera and at the theater. These are all calumnies, and I fight them every where, for Odette is as good and pure as she is lovely."

An actress would have envied the perfect skill with which Mme. Bricourt uttered this tirade. She emphasized some words, gesticulating at others; in short, she was mistress of her art.

"It is infamous!" cried Mme. de Smarte. "I will answer for Odette, as I would for myself."

"Of course, it is infamous! and we, her friends, must stand by her. We must deny every thing, and try to explain away any thing that seems strange in her conduct. It is not her fault. She was educated so disgracefully."

Poor little M. Descoutures had been uneasy for several minutes. He coughed timidly once or twice as if he were about to speak, for his loyal heart saw the malice and envy in these remarks. But the minute he opened his mouth, an angry glance from his wife nailed him dumb to his chair. He looked like a beetle pinned to a card in an entomologist's collection, that can move its limbs, but can not escape.

Mme. Bricourt arose to depart. Amable seized her shawl to present to her. The venerable lady looked at him with tears in her eyes, to call attention to his tender solicitude for his beloved mother.

She embraced Corinne, and saluted the others gracefully; but, before leaving the drawing-room, she launched this Parthian dart: "And it is very easy to reply to all their insinuations, that M. Sirvin was always very fond of Odette. You remember he settled that money on Paul, so he could marry her, and did all in his power to bring the match about. But I must not stop chatting here so late. Au revoir, dear friends."

When M. and Mme. Descoutures were alone, he tried to beg her to be kinder to Odette; but she did not even deign to listen, and withdrew immediately to her apartment.

In the mean time, Laviguerie and Germaine were quietly strolling homewards. The philosopher was commencing to understand his daughter better, and, unconsciously to himself, was learning to love her more every day. He felt that her nervous strength and energy were being expended in acts of charity and religion. He had had still another proof of it in the following incident:

One April morning, Mme. Descoutures called for Germaine to accompany her to Clermont, one of the suburbs of Paris, a little beyond Versailles. They were both muffled in furs, but beyond this there was very little resemblance in their attire. Germaine, plainly dressed in black, drew all eyes by her sweet fresh beauty; while Corinne, in addition to her striking costume, wore an immense hat, loaded with feathers and flowers. As long as they were in the train, the other travelers merely smiled quietly to themselves; but when they reached Clermont, it was mortifying for Germaine at least, as the whole population turned out to gaze at this absurd apparition. They climbed on doorsteps and fences to look at her. Corinne was delighted at what she called her triumph; how they all seemed to admire her! how they stared!

They were passing in front of the old castle, which is now used as a prison for women. As they passed along beneath its gloomy walls, they heard voices singing, sad and sweet. Germaine listened. It sounded as if they were singing a dirge. A few steps farther and they were opposite the gate, and Germaine heard a pure, velvety voice singing the De Profundis slowly and richly, as it is chanted in church. She saw the gatekeeper placidly smoking his pipe in front of the gate.

"Why are they singing a dirge?" she asked him.

"One of the prisoners is dead," he replied, politely taking off his cap.

Germaine shivered: "Dead? she is free then. How sad it must be to die in a prison!"

The gatekeeper had never thought of that. He shook his head sadly.

Corinne stood waiting for Germaine. What could she find to say to an old man like that? She called her:

"Come, child, it is cold."

"Please wait a few minutes!"

She was still listening to that angelic voice that came from the gray, gloomy chapel, the voice of a prisoner, probably, praying for her dead companion.

"What was the crime of the one that is dead?" Germaine asked the gatekeeper.

"She killed her lover in a fit of jealousy. But the saddest thing about it, is that she has a child, a little girl. She wanted to see it before she died."

At this moment the gate was opened, a priest in his white surplice appeared, followed by two choir-boys; then the bier, covered with the black pall. Death had taken the poor Magdalen to his arms, and she was now at rest. Behind the bier walked a little girl about eight years old, pale and thin, her large black eyes full of tears.

Corinne tried to pull Germaine away.

"Excuse me, Corinne, but I can not go with you to your friend. I will meet you at the dÉpÔt in an hour.

"Where are you going?"

"I am going with this mother and child;" and, without waiting for Corinne's reply, Germaine approached the child and embraced her tenderly; then, taking her little clinging hand, she walked with her behind the bier, through the streets to the cemetery. The priest had noticed every thing, and when the ceremony was at an end, he turned to her, saying: "God will reward your kind heart, Madame."

"Dear sir, I would like to adopt this little one."

"What! would you consent?"

"Will there be any difficulty? Is there a family?"

"Alas, no, Madame. These little waifs are alone in the world. There is no place but a foundling asylum for them. But you would do well to reflect carefully before undertaking such a responsibility. Perhaps your husband—"

"I am not married, sir. My name is Germaine Laviguerie. You may, perhaps, have heard of my father (the priest nodded); he is good and kind; he allows me to do as I choose. Besides, I have some fortune of my own, and would like to adopt this little one, and bring it up according to my ideas, which are the same as yours."

The priest bowed. He understood her noble, charitable intentions, and appreciated them. The child still stood with her eyes fastened on the tomb where they had laid her mother. Her grief was most touching in its sad resignation. Germaine bent over her and asked, in her caressing voice: "Would you like to come with me?"

The child replied solemnly, without the least hesitation, "Yes."

The necessary formalities were soon complied with. A certificate, signed by the superintendent of the prison and by the mayor, was given to Germaine, and that was all. She had a daughter. When she arrived at the dÉpÔt, she found Mme. Descoutures impatient at her long delay. When Corinne discovered what Germaine had accomplished, her amazement and indignation were beyond expression. She broke out into strong reproaches, however, saying: "For Heaven's sake! The idea of tying a little beggar like that to you for life! Your father will be very angry! At your age, to adopt a child!" But Germaine did not even hear her. She was whispering tenderly to the poor child.

"What is your name?"

"Elizabeth."

"Where have you been living since your mother left you?"

"At the Foundling's Home."

"Well, dear, you will never go back there. You are my little girl now, and I will be your mother."

Elizabeth, or Bessy, as they afterwards named her, clung to her new friend, and a sad smile hovered on her wan little face. The child accepted her virgin mother.

Corinne was mistaken as regards Laviguerie. He was not astonished at any thing Germaine ever did. At first, he thought it a little unfortunate that her fancy had happened to fall on the child of a murderess! But the philosopher felt himself bound to rise above common prejudices, and soon became interested in the child himself.

"You expect to bring up the child?" he asked Germaine.

"You have no objection, dear father?"

"I? Not in the least. But suppose you wish to marry some of these days?"

"Dear father, you know that I shall never marry."

Laviguerie shrugged his shoulders thinking that Odette used to say the same, yet she was married. He went back to his library, saying to himself that philosophy is much easier to understand than the workings of any woman's heart, and that women, generally, were incomprehensible creatures.

A few weeks later he came, one day, to his daughter's room, saying, "Will I disturb you if I come in for a little while?"

"You can never disturb me, dear father."

"I want to talk to you seriously, dear, dear child."

Germaine was astonished at these expressions of affection. M. Laviguerie himself was not at his ease. He had been obliged to acknowledge that in all his theories about Germaine, that he had confided to M. Descoutures, in one and all had he been proved mistaken. He continued:

"I must confess to you, dear Germaine, that I did not love you when you returned from Naples. I had formed mistaken ideas about you. You must forgive me. My preference for your sister came from my knowing her better; now that I know you as well, I wish to tell you, dear child, that you share my heart equally with Odette."

Germaine embraced her father. He continued, "I think you are one of the best women on earth. I fully appreciate your kind, good heart, and wonderful unselfishness. I have not done my duty to you, for I ought to have been looking out for a husband for my dear daughter."

"Oh! I implore you, do not speak of that."

"But why not? You are not in earnest when you say you do not wish to marry!"

"Indeed, indeed I am!"

"I am very sorry, my daughter. The true happiness in this life, for a woman, is to be a wife and a mother. In spite of your religious ideas, you are too sensible to wish to be a nun; but the life you lead now is nothing more than that. It would gratify me beyond measure to see you well married, so that when Death comes for me I may know I leave you in loving care."

Germaine was frightened at his insistance. What could it mean?

"What possible objection can you have to it?" continued the father; "I can see none whatever. You are young, you are attractive, you are rich. Little Bessie, of course, would be no hindrance; you could look after her just as well if you were married——"

"But, father, before I can marry, I must find a husband, and no one has proposed to me yet."

"There you are mistaken. This very morning, a young gentleman that I respect and admire, asked my permission to address you. It was a great and agreeable surprise. He is in every respect worthy of you. When I tell you his name—"

"Do not name him, dear father. I am obliged to refuse his offer."

"But why, my dear child? You must give me some reason. Can it be possible," he continued tenderly, "that you love another?"

Germaine buried her face in her hands, as she replied "Yes."

Laviguerie smiled: "Why did you not tell me long ago? You were not afraid of my refusal, surely. I am sure that your heart has chosen well, and I consent beforehand to any thing that is for your happiness. Tell me his name, dear child."

Germaine grew paler still. "I can never marry him, father."

"He does not return your affection?"

"He is not free to do so."

"He is married? Oh! my poor, poor child! But where did you meet him; here—in Italy?"

"I implore you, dear father, do not ask me any more questions. Let me stay with you—" Tears interrupted her.

Laviguerie took her in his arms, and, with inexpressible tenderness said: "Here, dear Germaine, you are unhappy, and I can only mingle my tears with yours. But let us speak of something else. I have received a note from Odette, inviting us to dinner to-morrow. I accepted in your name as well as my own. Have you not neglected your sister somewhat lately? I began to suspect either M. Sirvin or Paul had annoyed you in some way." He stopped. Germaine was as pale and rigid as a statue in his arms. Philosophers, as a rule, are not very clear-sighted; but Germaine's misery revealed the truth to him.

"It is Paul that you love?"

"Yes."

"You met him in Italy?"

"Yes."

Laviguerie recalled the past; Germaine's arrival the very day of Odette's betrothal, and her silence so as not to interfere with her sister's happiness. He knew that a word from Germaine would have broken the engagement; for Odette would never have consented to be the cause of any suffering to Germaine.

Many things now seemed clear to him. He understood why the pure young girl devoted her life to the poor and unhappy, trying to relieve them as much as possible; why she spent all her leisure time sewing for them; and why she had adopted little Bessie. All this privation and work was to divert her mind from her unhappy love, and, by making others happy, to forget her own sorrow; and Laviguerie had prophesied shame and disease to this noble woman, who suffered a martyrdom with such sweet serenity. He asked himself whence came this strength to "suffer and be strong," and an immense sympathy and tenderness filled his heart.

"My daughter, forgive me!" he said solemnly, and left the room, as he saw she was longing for solitude. He was full of amazement that religious faith could so strengthen and comfort Germaine in her hopeless sorrow, and felt his theories and principles had received a violent shock.