.

He drew them into the sitting-room. Poor M. Folgat was sorely
embarrassed what to do with himself. No one seemed to be aware of his
existence. He followed them, however. He entered the room, and standing
by the door, sharing the general excitement, he was watching by turns,
Dionysia, M. de Chandore, and the two spinsters.

Dionysia was then twenty years old. It could not be said that she was
uncommonly beautiful; but no one could ever forget her again who had
once seen her. Small in form, she was grace personified; and all her
movements betrayed a rare and exquisite perfection. Her black hair fell
in marvellous masses over her head, and contrasted strangely with her
blue eyes and her fair complexion. Her skin was of dazzling whiteness.
Every thing in her features spoke of excessive timidity. And yet, from
certain movements of her lips and her eyebrows, one might have suspected
no lack of energy.

Grandpapa Chandore looked unusually tall by her side. His massive frame
was imposing. He did not show his seventy-two years, but was as straight
as ever, and seemed to be able to defy all the storms of life. What
struck strangers most, perhaps, was his dark-red complexion, which gave
him the appearance of an Indian chieftain, while his white beard and
hair brought the crimson color still more prominently out. In spite
of his herculean frame and his strange complexion, his face bore the
expression of almost child-like goodness. But the first glance at his
eyes proved that the gentle smile on his lips was not to be taken alone.
There were flashes in his gray eyes which made people aware that a man
who should dare, for instance, to offend Dionysia, would have to pay for
it pretty dearly.

As to the two aunts, they were as tall and thin as a couple of
willow-rods, pale, discreet, ultra-aristocratic in their reserve and
their coldness; but they bore in their faces an expression of happy
peace and sentimental tenderness, such as is often seen in old maids
whose temper has not been soured by celibacy. They dressed absolutely
alike, as they had done now for forty years, preferring neutral colors
and modest fashions, such as suited their simple taste.

They were crying bitterly at that moment; and M. Folgat felt
instinctively that there was no sacrifice of which they were not capable
for their beloved niece's sake.

"Poor Dionysia!" they whispered.

The girl heard them, however; and, drawing herself up, she said,--

"But we