own
unconventional way, and especially dilated on the share that Pauline had
taken in it. He grew eloquent on this particular theme. He assured M.
Belmont that he ought to be proud of his daughter, as she had made the
most favourable impression on all the guests and particularly on the
Governor.

There is no exaggeration in saying that this was positively delightful
to the anxious father, and that, under the circumstances, it went far
towards restoring his peace of mind. It was, therefore, no wonder that
the conversation, thus initiated, flowed on in a continuous channel of
gaiety, in which even Batoche joined at intervals, and after his own
peculiar manner. He said very little, indeed, perhaps not over a dozen
words, but he chuckled now and again, rolled about in his seat and gave
other tokens of satisfaction at the turn which things were taking. This,
however, did not prevent him, from the comparative obscurity of the
corner which he occupied, closely watching the features of the visitor,
and studying all his movements.

At length, at a convenient turn of the conversation, M. Belmont inquired
of his friend what the news of the day might be.

"Oh, nothing that I know of," replied Bouchette promptly, and quite
unconcernedly. "I have just got out of my bed and came here directly."

If a mountain had been taken from the shoulders of poor M. Belmont, he
could not have felt more relief than he did on hearing these few words.
He simply could not contain his joy. Leaping up from his seat, he
slapped his friend on the shoulder, and exclaimed:

"Well, Bouchette, we shall have a glass of wine, some of my best old
Burgundy. Your visit has done me a world of good."

The little grey eyes of Batoche were fixed like gimlets on the wall
opposite, at the line where it touched the ceiling. There was a glassy
light in them. He had gone off suddenly into one of his absent moods.
But it was only for a moment. Recovering himself, he too rose abruptly
from his seat, bringing his right arm down with a bang upon his thigh,
and muttering a few inarticulate words.

The wine was quaffed with pledges and _bons mots_. A second round of
glasses was indulged in, and when the interview closed at length,
Bouchette thundered out of the house as heartily as he had entered it.

"Well!" exclaimed M. Belmont, closing the door and confronting Batoche
in the hall.

"Well!" replied the other quietly.

"What do you say?"

"What do I say? I say th