"Because, grandmamma, if M. de Clagny were to dine without his dress-coat, M. Giraud could, too; and otherwise he will have to dine all by himself in his room." "What are you talking about, child?" "Why, it's very simple. M. Giraud has no dress-coat; he hasn't one at all. I got to know it by chance; he told Baptiste just now that he was not very well, and that he should not leave his room this evening, and so, if M. de Clagny would stay just as he is, don't you see, he could, too--M. Giraud, I mean." "What a good little Bijou you are!" said the marchioness, quite touched; "you think of everyone; you do nothing but find ways of giving pleasure to all." Denyse was not listening to this. She was waiting for the count to give his consent. "Would it be a great, great pleasure to you," he asked at length, "if this Monsieur Giraud could dine at table?" "Yes." "Then it shall be as you wish. Tell me, though, now, who is this gentleman with whom I am not acquainted, and for whose sake I am consenting to appear as a most ill-bred man?" "He is Pierrot's coach." "Ah! and what's this Pierrot?" "The son of Alexis," said Madame de Bracieux laughing. "Then the god to whom I am to be sacrificed is M. Giraud, tutor to Pierrot de Jonzac, and he is honoured by the patronage of Mademoiselle Denyse. Thank you, I like to know how things are." "But," protested Denyse, turning very red, "I do not patronise M. Giraud at all. I----" "Oh, do not attempt to defend yourself. I know what kind of a role a poor tutor without a dress-coat must play in the life of a beautiful young lady like you; it is just a role of no account; he represents as exactly as possible _a gentleman of no importance_ in a play." "You have no idea," said the marchioness, when Denyse had gone away, "how good that child is. This young man in whom she is interested, and who, by the bye, is really charming, is always treated by her exactly on the same footing as the most influential and the most distinguished men she meets. Oh, she is a pearl, is Bijou; you will see!" "I shall see it perhaps too clearly." "How do you mean--too clearly?" "I am very susceptible, you know. I have a foolish old heart, which sounds an alarm at the slightest danger, and which afterwards I cannot silence again." "But Bijou is my grand-daughter, my poor old friend." "Well, what difference does that make?" "Why, just this--that she might be yours." "I know all that well enough. Good heavens!--that is what you might call reasoning; and hearts that remain young either reason very little or very badly." "And so?" "Oh," said M. de Clagny, making an effort to laugh, "I was joking, of course." * * * * *