"Do you know, innkeeper, of one Monsieur de Monnière who lives in this neighborhood?" "Monsieur de Monnière?" repeated Pierre, blankly. "Yes," said the marquis, impatiently. "De Monnière--Monsieur de Monnière. Do you know where Monsieur de Monnière lives?" "Monsieur de Monnière," repeated Pierre, stupidly; he did not recognize the name. The landlady stood in the door of the inn behind: woman are quicker of wit than men. "Monseigneur means Monsieur Oliver," said she. The marquis overheard. "Yes," exclaimed he. "Monsieur Oliver--Monsieur Oliver de Monnière." "Oh, Monsieur Oliver!" cried Pierre. "Oh yes, I know him as well as I know myself. He and his respected mother are now living up there on the hill. You can, monseigneur, see the house with your own eyes. It is that one with the white wall to the side, and with the apple and pear trees showing over the top. The rich Dr. Fouchette used to live there. It is, monseigneur, the finest house in Flourens. Monsieur Oliver indeed! That is good! I have known Monsieur Oliver ever since--" But the coach was gone; the marquis had called out to the driver, had pulled up the window with a click, and now the coach was gone. Pierre stared after it for a while, and then he put on first his wig and then his hat, and went into the house again. So Oliver drew back from the window and turned around. "You see, mother," said he, "monseigneur comes, as I asserted he would." Oliver's mother was in a tremendous flutter. "And to think," said she, "of his coming all the way from the château just because of a little piece of cut-glass!" Oliver laughed. "That little piece of cut-glass was worth having," said he. "You do not yet know the value of little pieces of cut-glass like that, my mother." Madame Munier did not listen to what Oliver was saying. "And to think," said she, "of Monseigneur the Marquis visiting me, the Widow Munier!" "You forget, mother," said Oliver. "You are no longer Widow Munier, you are Madame de Monnière." Henri opened the door. "The Marquis de Flourens," he announced; and the marquis entered the room with his feathered hat and his clouded cane in his hand. "This is Monsieur Oliver de Monnière?" said he. Oliver bowed. "And this lady?" "Permit me," said Oliver; "my mother." Madame de Monnière courtesied so low that she nearly sat down upon the floor. She was profoundly agitated; she was frightened; she would rather be somewhere else. She was pleased. Yes, it was delicious having a marquis visit one in one's own house. "And you, madame," said the marquis, "if I may be permitted to ask, did me the honor of calling upon me this morning?" Madame de Monnière nodded. She was embarrassed at the thought of what she had done; she could not speak. Oliver spoke for her. "She obliged me," said he, "by executing a little commission for me. Pardon me, monseigneur, that, knowing your interest as a collector, I took the liberty of sending a small specimen to you. I have your forgiveness?"