eboard devoted to the display of rare curios collected
by a connoisseur exclusively for the satisfaction of his taste. A little
disorder naturally, in this household equipped at hazard, as choice
things could be picked up. The wonderful cruet-stand had lost its
stoppers. The chipped salt-cellar allowed its contents to escape on the
table-cloth, and at every moment you would hear, "Why! what is become of
the mustard-pot?" "What has happened to this fork?" This embarrassed de
Gery a little on account of the young mistress of the house, who for her
part took no notice of it.

But something made Paul feel still more ill at ease--his anxiety,
namely, to know who the privileged guest might be whom he was replacing
at this table, who could be treated at once with so much magnificence
and so complete an informality. In spite of everything, he felt
him present, an offence to his personal dignity, that visitor whose
invitation had been cancelled. It was in vain that he tried to forget
him; everything brought him back to his mind, even the fine dress of the
good fairy sitting opposite him, who still maintained some of the grand
airs with which she had equipped herself in advance for the solemn
occasion. This thought troubled him, spoiled for him the pleasure of
being there.

On the other hand, by contrast, as it happens in all friendships
between two people who meet very rarely, never had he seen Felicia so
affectionate, in such happy temper. It was an overflowing gaiety that
was almost childish, one of those warm expansions of feeling that are
experienced when a danger has been passed, the reaction of a bright
roaring fire after the emotion of a shipwreck. She laughed heartily,
teased Paul about his accent and what she called his _bourgeois_ ideas.
"For you are a terrible _bourgeois_, you know. But it is that that I
like in you. It is an effect of contraries, doubtless; it is because I
myself was born under a bridge, in a gust of wind, that I have always
liked sedate, reasonable natures."

"Oh, my child, what are you going to have M. Paul think, that you were
born under a bridge?" said the good Crenmitz, who could not accustom
herself to the exaggeration of certain metaphors, and always took
everything literally.

"Let him think what he likes, my fairy. We are not trying to catch him
for a husband. I am sure he would not want one of those monsters who are
known as female artists. He would think he was marrying the devil. You