ends that it is an indispensable
complement to my collection of family portraits, and he offers to do me
the favor of assuming charge of it. It seems, from what your aunt tells
me, that he is very learned in heraldry. Would you believe it, he spent
the whole morning in the library looking over files of old manuscripts?
I am delighted, for this will prolong his stay here. He is a very
charming fellow; a Liberal in politics, but a gentleman at heart.
Marillac, who is a superb penman, undertakes to make a fair copy of the
genealogy and to illuminate the crests. Do you know, we can not find my
great-grandmother Cantelescar's coat-of-arms? But, my darling, it seems
to me that you are not very kindly disposed toward your cousin Gerfaut."

Madame de Bergenheim, when these remarks and various others of a similar
nature came up, tried to change the conversation, but she felt
an antipathy for her husband bordering upon aversion. For lack of
intelligence is one of the faults women can pardon the least; they look
upon a confidence which is lulled into security by faith in their honor,
and a blindness which does not suspect the possibility of a fall, as
positive crimes.

"Look at these pretty verses Monsieur de Gerfaut has written in my
album, Clemence," said Aline, in her turn. During vacation, among her
other pleasures forbidden her at the Sacred Heart, the young girl
had purchased a superbly bound album, containing so far but two ugly
sketches in sepia, one very bad attempt in water-colors, and the verses
in question. She called this "my album!" as she called a certain little
blank book, "my diary!" To the latter she confided every night the
important events of the day. This book had assumed such proportions,
during the last few days, that it threatened to reach the dimensions of
the Duchesse d'Abrantes' memoires, but if the album was free to public
admiration, nobody ever saw the diary, and Justine herself never had
been able to discover the sanctuary that concealed this mysterious
manuscript.

Aline was not so pleasantly received as the others, and Madame de
Bergenheim hardly concealed the ill-humor her pretty sister-in-law's
beaming face caused her every time Octave's name was mentioned.

The latter's diplomatic conduct was bearing fruit, and his expectations
were being fulfilled with a precision which proved the correctness of
his calculations.

In the midst of all the contradictory sentiments of fear, remorse,
vexation