Mme de Montargis’ congratulations were polite, if a trifle perfunctory. The convenances demanded that one should simulate an interest in the affairs of one’s acquaintances, but in reality, and at this hour of the day, how they did bore one! And Marie de Maillé, with her soft airs, and that insufferable Adèle of hers, whom she had always spoilt so abominably. It was a little too much! One had affairs of one’s own. With the fretful expression of half an hour before she drew a letter from beneath her pillow. "I too have news to impart," she said, with rather a pinched smile. "News that concerns you very closely, M. le Vicomte," and she fixed her eyes on Sélincourt. "That concerns me?" "But yes, Monsieur, since what concerns Mademoiselle your betrothed must concern you, and closely, as I said." "Mademoiselle my betrothed, Mlle de Rochambeau!" he cried quickly. "Is she then ill?" Mme de Montargis smiled maliciously. "Hark to the anxious lover! But calm yourself, my friend, she is certainly not ill, or she would not now be on her way to Paris." "To Paris?" "That, Monsieur, is, I believe, her destination." "What? She is coming to Paris now?" inquired Mme de Maillé with concern. The Marquise shrugged her shoulders. "It is very inconvenient, but what would you?" she said lightly; "as you know, dear friend, she was betrothed to M. le Vicomte when she was a child. Then my good cousin, the Comte de Rochambeau, takes it into his virtuous head that this world, even in his rural retreat, is no longer good enough for him, and follows Madame, his equally virtuous wife, to Paradise, where they are no doubt extremely happy. Until yesterday I pictured Mademoiselle almost as saintly and contented with the holy Sisters of the Grace Dieu Convent, who have looked after her for the last ten years or so. Then comes this letter; it seems there have been riots, a château burned, an intendant or two murdered, and the good nuns take advantage of the fact that the steward of Rochambeau and his wife are making a journey to Paris to confide Mademoiselle to their care, and mine. It seems," she concluded, with a little laugh, "that they think Paris is safe, these good nuns." "Poor child, poor child!" exclaimed Mme de Maillé in a distressed voice; "can you not stop her, turn her back?" The Marquise laughed again. "Dear friend, she is probably arriving at this minute. The Sisters are women of energy." "At least M. de Sélincourt is to be congratulated," said Mme de Maillé after a pause; "that is if Mademoiselle resembles her parents. I remember her mother very well,—how charming, how spirituelle, how amiable! I knew her for only too short a time, and yet, looking back, it seems to me that I never had a friend I valued more." "My cousin De Rochambeau was crazy about her," reflected Mme de Montargis; "he might have married anybody, and he chose an Irish girl without a sou. It was the talk of Paris at the time. He was the handsomest man at Court."