this indirect attack, to
which it was impossible for her to raise any objections.

"Monsieur de Gerfaut has promised to spend a fortnight longer with us,"
said her aunt to her, in a jeering tone.

"Really, Gerfaut is very obliging," said her husband, in his turn; "he
thinks it very strange that we have not had a genealogical tree made to
put in the drawing-room. He pretends that it is an indispensable
complement to my collection of family portraits, and he offers to do me
the favor of assuming charge of it. It seems, from what your aunt tells
me, that he is very learned in heraldry. Would you believe it, he spent
the whole morning in the library looking over files of old manuscripts? I
am delighted, for this will prolong his stay here. He is a very charming
fellow; a Liberal in politics, but a gentleman at heart. Marillac, who is
a superb penman, undertakes to make a fair copy of the genealogy and to
illuminate the crests. Do you know, we can not find my great-grandmother
Cantelescar's coat-of-arms? But, my darling, it seems to me that you are
not very kindly disposed toward your cousin Gerfaut."

Madame de Bergenheim, when these remarks and various others of a similar
nature came up, tried to change the conversation, but she felt an
antipathy for her husband bordering upon aversion. For lack of
intelligence is one of the faults women can pardon the least; they look
upon a confidence which is lulled into security by faith in their honor,
and a blindness which does not suspect the possibility of a fall, as
positive crimes.

"Look at these pretty verses Monsieur de Gerfaut has written in my album,
Clemence," said Aline, in her turn. During vacation, among her other
pleasures forbidden her at the Sacred Heart, the young girl had purchased
a superbly bound album, containing so far but two ugly sketches in sepia,
one very bad attempt in water-colors, and the verses in question. She
called this "my album!" as she called a certain little blank book, "my
diary!" To the latter she confided every night the important events of
the day. This book had assumed such proportions, during the last few
days, that it threatened to reach the dimensions of the Duchesse
d'Abrantes' memoires, but if the album was free to public admiration,
nobody ever saw the diary, and Justine herself never had been able to
discover the sanctuary that concealed this mysterious manuscript.

Aline was not so pleasantly received as the others, and Madame de