Mademoiselle Cormon rose hastily, and looked at du Bousquier, who at that moment resembled the stout god of Fable which the Republic stamped upon her coins. She walked up to Madame Granson, and said in her ear:-- “My dear friend, you son is an idiot. That lyceum has ruined him,” she added, remembering the insistence with which the chevalier had spoken of the evils of education in such schools. What a catastrophe! Unknown to himself, the luckless Athanase had had an occasion to fling an ember of his own fire upon the pile of brush gathered in the heart of the old maid. Had he listened to her, he might have made her, then and there, perceive his passion; for, in the agitated state of Mademoiselle Cormon’s mind, a single word would have sufficed. But that stupid absorption in his own sentiments, which characterizes young and true love, had ruined him, as a child full of life sometimes kills itself out of ignorance. “What have you been saying to Mademoiselle Cormon?” demanded his mother. “Nothing.” “Nothing; well, I can explain that,” she thought to herself, putting off till the next day all further reflection on the matter, and attaching but little importance to Mademoiselle Cormon’s words; for she fully believed that du Bousquier was forever lost in the old maid’s esteem after the revelation of that evening. Soon the four tables were filled with their sixteen players. Four persons were playing piquet,--an expensive game, at which the most money was lost. Monsieur Choisnel, the procureur-du-roi, and two ladies went into the boudoir for a game at backgammon. The glass lustres were lighted; and then the flower of Mademoiselle Cormon’s company gathered before the fireplace, on sofas, and around the tables, and each couple said to her as they arrived,-- “So you are going to-morrow to Prebaudet?” “Yes, I really must,” she replied. On this occasion the mistress of the house appeared preoccupied. Madame Granson was the first to perceive the quite unnatural state of the old maid’s mind,--Mademoiselle Cormon was thinking! “What are you thinking of, cousin?” she said at last, finding her seated in the boudoir. “I am thinking,” she replied, “of that poor girl. As the president of the Maternity Society, I will give you fifty francs for her.” “Fifty francs!” cried Madame Granson. “But you have never given as much as that.” “But, my dear cousin, it is so natural to have children.” That immoral speech coming from the heart of the old maid staggered the treasurer of the Maternity Society. Du Bousquier had evidently advanced in the estimation of Mademoiselle Cormon.