said Paul; "I tell you I went to a ball there. It
was--"

"Let Monsieur de Larnac speak. You can tell us presently about the ball
at Mrs. Scott's."

"Well, now, imagine my Americans established in Paris," continued M. de
Larnac, "and the showers of gold begun. In the orthodox parvenu style
they amuse themselves with throwing handfuls of gold out of window. Their
great wealth is quite recent, they say; ten years ago Mrs. Scott begged
in the streets of New York."

"Begged!"

"They say so. Then she married this Scott, the son of a New York banker,
and all at once a successful lawsuit put into their hands not millions,
but tens of millions. Somewhere in America they have a silver mine, but a
genuine mine, a real mine--a mine with silver in it. Ah! we shall see
what luxury will reign at Longueval! We shall all look like paupers
beside them! It is said that they have 100,000 francs a day to spend."

"Such are our neighbors!" cried Madame de Lavardens. "An adventuress! and
that is the least of it--a heretic, Monsieur l'Abbe, a Protestant!"

A heretic! a Protestant! Poor Cure; it was indeed that of which he had
immediately thought on hearing the words, "An American, Mrs. Scott." The
new chatelaine of Longueval would not go to mass. What did it matter to
him that she had been a beggar? What did it matter to him if she
possessed tens and tens of millions? She was not a Catholic. He would
never again baptize children born at Longueval, and the chapel in the
castle, where he had so often said mass, would be transformed into a
Protestant oratory, which would echo only the frigid utterances of a
Calvinistic or Lutheran pastor.

Every one was distressed, disappointed, overwhelmed; but in the midst of
the general depression Paul stood radiant.

"A charming heretic at all events," said he, "or rather two charming
heretics. You should see the two sisters on horseback in the Bois, with
two little grooms behind them not higher than that."

"Come, Paul, tell us all you know. Describe the ball of which you speak.
How did you happen to go to a ball at these Americans?"

"By the greatest chance. My Aunt Valentine was at home that night; I
looked in about ten o'clock. Well, Aunt Valentine's Wednesdays are not
exactly scenes of wild enjoyment, I give you my word! I had been there
about twenty minutes when I caught sight of Roger de Puymartin escaping
furtively. I caught him in the hall and said:

"'We will go home together.'

"'O