was the depository of a most important family
secret--in fact the counsellor and confidential agent in an affair of
the most vital consequence to the powers above. At first he had only
dropped vague hints, but what with M. Boulederouloue's dullness in
comprehending them, and Monsieur Perigord's sudden and searching
comments on them, he gradually began to let out more and more. Perhaps
the Chateau d'Yquem loosened M. Jasmin's tongue, for he had latterly
been staying much at Valricour, and as the wine allowed that household
was of a quality and quantity that gave an additional relish to
unstinted measure and a vintage of the choicest class, he became more
and more communicative.

"To be sure--to be sure! It is but natural that Monsieur Isidore
should marry Mademoiselle Clotilde," exclaimed the voluble little man,
as Jasmin with a mysterious smile left some allusion to the subject
half unsaid. "It is only what was to be expected--it could hardly be
otherwise--any one could guess that. What! Have I not danced them
both on my knees when they were babies, and seen them grow up together
as it were hand in hand, as if they were destined from their cradles to
be husband and wife? He is noble, generous, and handsome; she is
witty, virtuous, and beautiful. What do you tell us of a rival--of
complications--of difficulties--of a _mesalliance_?"

Again M. Jasmin smiled mysteriously; M. Boulederouloue, collecting all
his energies for the purpose, ejaculated, "Impossible!"

"Our good friend is right; it is impossible," continued Perigord
vivaciously. "Who could come between them? Who else could aspire to
the hand of monsieur our young marquis? Ah! my good friend, you have
been dreaming of something till you have imagined it to be a reality."

Monsieur Jasmin was nettled, but he only smiled again more
contemptuously, saying, "Of course, it was doubtless only a dream of
mine that there is such a young lady as Mademoiselle Lacroix."

"What! Mademoiselle Marguerite, she is a reality indeed--sensible,
handsome, courageous, charitable, an angel for one in her station; but
then," here M. Perigord shrugged his shoulders, "she knows well that
the rank of monsieur our young marquis forbids the thought of her
aspiring to his hand. Ah, no! you deceive yourself, my friend, but you
cannot deceive me in such a matter."

"Indeed," replied the other, sarcastically; "and what should you say if
I tell you that she has won monsieur's h