it is
a rustic's impertinence--a bourgeois' vulgarity. She is preeminent, voila
tout. Has she grace and beauty? Then you are answered: such possessions
are an assurance that her influence in the aggregate must be for good.
Thunder, destructive to insects, refreshes earth: so she. So sang the
rhapsodist. Possibly a scholarly little French gentleman, going down the
grey slopes of sixty to second childishness, recovers a second juvenility
in these enthusiasms; though what it is that inspires our matrons to take
up with them is unimaginable. M. Livret's ardour was a contrast to the
young Englishman's vacant gaze at Diane, and the symbols of her
goddesship running along the walls, the bed, the cabinets, everywhere
that the chaste device could find frontage and a corner.

M. d'Orbec remained outside the chateau inspecting the fish-ponds. When
they rejoined him he complimented Beauchamp semi-ironically on his choice
of the river's quiet charms in preference to the dusty roads. Madame de
Rouaillout said, 'Come, M. d'Orbec; what if you surrender your horse to
M. Beauchamp, and row me back?' He changed colour, hesitated, and
declined he had an engagement to call on M. d'Henriel.

'When did you see him?' said she.

He was confused. 'It is not long since, madame.'

'On the road?'

'Coming along-the road.'

'And our glove?'

'Madame la Marquise, if I may trust my memory, M. d'Henriel was not in
official costume.'

Renee allowed herself to be reassured.

A ceremonious visit that M. Livret insisted on was paid to the chapel of
Diane, where she had worshipped and laid her widowed ashes, which, said
M. Livret, the fiends of the Revolution would not let rest.

He raised his voice to denounce them.

It was Roland de Croisnel that answered: 'The Revolution was our
grandmother, monsieur, and I cannot hear her abused.'

Renee caught her brother by the hand. He stepped out of the chapel with
Beauchamp to embrace him; then kissed Renee, and, remarking that she was
pale, fetched flooding colour to her cheeks. He was hearty air to them
after the sentimentalism they had been hearing. Beauchamp and he walked
like loving comrades at school, questioning, answering, chattering,
laughing,--a beautiful sight to Renee, and she looked at Agrnes d'Auffray
to ask her whether 'this Englishman' was not one of them in his frankness
and freshness.

Roland stopped to turn to Renee. 'I met d'Henriel on my ride here,' he
said with a sharp inquisi