Madame Thierry glanced again at Julien, who controlled himself perfectly as he removed the paper in which he had wrapped the parasol. As soon as her back was turned, he covered it with kisses, like the romantic, excitable child he was, despite his claim to be a mature man. As for the poor mother, in her distrust and uncertainty she said to herself that every joy is attended by danger in this world, and that she might perhaps have reason to regret the amiable overtures of her too fascinating neighbor. The next day the door swung on its hinges, and the keys were handed to Madame Thierry, who, urged on by Julien, ventured timidly to enter the countess's flowery domain. That lady had determined to do the honors of her primroses and hyacinths in person, but an inevitable disclosure by Marcel had changed the course of her ideas and cooled her zeal in some measure. The solicitor had called again to discuss her affairs. She made haste to tell him that she had made his aunt's acquaintance, and spoke of her in the warmest possible terms. Then she went on to ask questions. "The charming woman told me of her birth, her love and her past happiness, and she was on the point of telling me about what she calls her present happiness, when we were interrupted. I supposed, on the other hand, that she was very unhappy. Have I not heard that she had been forced to sell all that she had?" "That is the truth," Marcel replied; "but there is something in my excellent aunt's character which not everybody can understand, but which you will understand perfectly, madame la comtesse. I can tell you her husband's story and hers in a word. My uncle the artist had a great heart, much talent and wit, but very little method and no foresight at all. As he had never had anything in his youth, and earned from day to day, first the bare necessaries of life, afterward the luxuries, he allowed himself to be carried along by his natural recklessness; and as he had some rather extravagant tastes--an artist's tastes, that tells the whole story--he soon established his outlay upon a very agreeable but very hazardous footing. He loved society and was popular; he never went on foot, he had a carriage; he gave exquisite little dinners in what he called his hut at Sèvres, which was crowded with sumptuous trinkets and artistic objects, for which he paid great prices; so that he ran in debt. His wife's property paid his debts, and enabled them to continue this risky but delightful life. When he died he was over head and ears in debt once more. My dear aunt knew it, but did not choose to cast a shadow on his heedless and light-hearted old age by showing the slightest concern for their son's future. 'My son is sensible,' she said; 'he is studying his art with passionate zeal. He will have as much talent as his father. He will be poor, and he will make his fortune. He will pass through the trials and triumphs which his father passed