rd of
wrappings, still further defended by formidable lines of pins. Above
all, Mademoiselle Cormon sacrificed on the altar of her hopes three
bottles of the famous liqueurs of Madame Amphoux, the most illustrious
of all the distillers of the tropics,--a name very dear to gourmets.
Thanks to the devotion of her lieutenants, mademoiselle was soon ready
for the conflict. The different weapons--furniture, cookery, provisions,
in short, all the various munitions of war, together with a body of
reserve forces--were ready along the whole line. Jacquelin, Mariette,
and Josette received orders to appear in full dress. The garden was
raked. The old maid regretted that she couldn't come to an understanding
with the nightingales nesting in the trees, in order to obtain their
finest trilling.

At last, about four o'clock, at the very moment when the Abbe de Sponde
returned home, and just as mademoiselle began to think she had set the
table with the best plate and linen and prepared the choicest dishes to
no purpose, the click-clack of a postilion was heard in the Val-Noble.

"'Tis he!" she said to herself, the snap of the whip echoing in her
heart.

True enough; heralded by all this gossip, a post-chaise, in which was
a single gentleman, made so great a sensation coming down the rue
Saint-Blaise and turning into the rue du Cours that several little
gamains and some grown persons followed it, and stood in groups about
the gate of the hotel Cormon to see it enter. Jacquelin, who foresaw his
own marriage in that of his mistress, had also heard the click-clack in
the rue Saint-Blaise, and had opened wide the gates into the courtyard.
The postilion, a friend of his, took pride in making a fine turn-in, and
drew up sharply before the portico. The abbe came forward to greet his
guest, whose carriage was emptied with a speed that highwaymen might put
into the operation; the chaise itself was rolled into the coach-house,
the gates closed, and in a few moments all signs of Monsieur de
Troisville's arrival had disappeared. Never did two chemicals blend
into each other with greater rapidity than the hotel Cormon displayed in
absorbing the Vicomte de Troisville.

Mademoiselle, whose heart was beating like a lizard caught by a
herdsman, sat heroically still on her sofa, beside the fire in the
salon. Josette opened the door; and the Vicomte de Troisville, followed
by the Abbe de Sponde, presented himself to the eyes of the spinster.

"Niece