oltairians. A brother of the Christian
Doctrine, or a sister of St. Vincent de Paul, would bargain for
catechisms for their schools. From time to time, even a prince of the
church, a bishop with aristocratic mien, enveloped in an ample gown, with
his hat surrounded with a green cord and golden tassels, would
mysteriously shut himself up in M. Isidore Gaufre's office for an hour;
and then would be reconducted to the top of the steps by the cringing
proprietor, profuse with his "Monseigneur," and obsequiously bowing under
the haughty benediction of two fingers in a violet glove.

It was certainly not from sympathy that M. Violette had kept up his
relations with his wife's uncle; for M. Gaufre, who was servilely polite
to all those in whom he had an interest, was usually disdainful,
sometimes even insolent, to those who were of no use to him. During his
niece's life he had troubled himself very little about her, and had given
her for a wedding present only an ivory crucifix with a shell for holy
water, such as he sold by the gross to be used in convents. A self-made
man, having already amassed--so they said--a considerable fortune, M.
Gaufre held in very low estimation this poor devil of a commonplace
employe whose slow advancement was doubtless due to the fact that he was
lazy and incapable. From the greeting that he received, M. Violette
suspected the poor opinion that M. Gaufre had of him. If he went there in
spite of his natural pride it was only on his son's account. For M.
Gaufre was rich, and he was not young. Perhaps--who could tell?--he might
not forget Amedee, his nephew, in his will? It was necessary for him to
see the child occasionally, and M. Violette, in pursuance of his paternal
duty, condemned himself, three or four times a year, to the infliction of
a visit at the "Bon Marche des Paroisses."

The hopes that M. Violette had formed as to his son's inheriting from M.
Gaufre were very problematical; for the father, whom M. Gaufre had not
been able to avoid receiving at his table occasionally, had been struck,
even shocked, by the familiar and despotic tone of the old merchant's
servant, a superb Normandy woman of about twenty-five years, answering to
the royal name of Berenice. The impertinent ways of this robust woman
betrayed her position in her master's house, as much as the diamonds that
glittered in her ears. This creature would surely watch the will of her
patron, a sexagenarian with an apoplectic neck,