equal to what your Mademoiselle
Bontems would bring me."

"Are you crazy?"

"No, father. These are the facts. The Chief Justice promised me
yesterday that I should have a seat on the Bench. Fifty thousand francs
added to what I have, and to the pay of my appointment, will give me an
income of twelve thousand francs a year. And I then shall most certainly
have a chance of marrying a fortune, better than this alliance, which
will be poor in happiness if rich in goods."

"It is very clear," said his father, "that you were not brought up under
the old _regime_. Does a man of our rank ever allow his wife to be in
his way?"

"But, my dear father, in these days marriage is--"

"Bless me!" cried the Count, interrupting his son, "then what my old
_emigre_ friends tell me is true, I suppose. The Revolution has left
us habits devoid of pleasure, and has infected all the young men with
vulgar principles. You, like my Jacobin brother-in-law, will
harangue me, I suppose, on the Nation, Public Morals, and
Disinterestedness!--Good Heavens! But for the Emperor's sisters, where
should we be?"

The still hale old man, whom the peasants on the estate persisted in
calling the Signeur de Granville, ended his speech as they entered the
Cathedral porch. In spite of the sanctity of the place, and even as he
dipped his fingers in the holy water, he hummed an air from the opera of
_Rose et Colas_, and then led the way down the side aisles, stopping
by each pillar to survey the rows of heads, all in lines like ranks of
soldiers on parade.

The special service of the Sacred Heart was about to begin. The ladies
affiliated to that congregation were in front near the choir, so the
Count and his son made their way to that part of the nave, and stood
leaning against one of the columns where there was least light, whence
they could command a view of this mass of faces, looking like a meadow
full of flowers. Suddenly, close to young Granville, a voice, sweeter
than it seemed possible to ascribe to a human being, broke into song,
like the first nightingale when winter is past. Though it mingled with
the voices of a thousand other women and the notes of the organ, that
voice stirred his nerves as though they vibrated to the too full and too
piercing sounds of a harmonium. The Parisian turned round, and, seeing
a young figure, though, the head being bent, her face was entirely
concealed by a large white bonnet, concluded that the voice was hers. He