"I showed grandmamma the doctor's letter; she is very sorry about our going away. She adores the children, and then, too, she likes to have the house full at Bracieux." "And she let herself be gulled with this story about Marcel's nervous condition? I am surprised at that; she is so sharp!" "If she was not _gulled_, as you call it, she allowed me to think that she was. I shall see you again presently: I must get ready for breakfast." M. de Rueille went up to his wife, and asked, in a half-timid way: "You are angry with me about it?" "I? why should I be angry about what you cannot help? You are in the same situation as Jean, M. Giraud, Henry, the accompaniment professor, Pierrot, and others that we don't know of, not to speak of the abbe, who, at present, is always to be found somewhere round about where Bijou is." "Oh!" "It's perfectly true; the only thing is that, as far as he is concerned, he is unconscious of it. Without understanding the why and wherefore, he, too, is captivated by Bijou's charms just the same as all the others who come near her. I am quite sure that he, too, will be unhappy about going away from here; but he will not be able to explain to himself even the cause of his unhappiness. Ah! there's the bell; I shall never be ready; you had better go on down." * * * * * "Pierrot," said the marchioness, after breakfast, when everyone had assembled in the morning-room, "you did not give me my book yesterday?" Pierrot, who was talking to Bijou, turned round, somewhat taken aback. "What book, aunt?" "Dumas' novel for the cure." "Ah, yes; I could not think what book you meant!" "You forgot to do my errand?" "Not at all! but Pellerin hadn't it." "Oh, why--he always has everything one wants!" "Well, he hadn't got that; and, what was better still, he didn't seem to know the book at all!" "Nonsense!" "No, it's quite true! and he's an obstinate sort of beggar, too, he would have it that it wasn't by the father--what's his name? ah! I've forgotten already." "Dumas!" "Dumas! yes, that's it; and he kept on saying all the time, 'I know my Dumas well enough, and that book was never written by him.' Well, anyhow, he promised to try to get it, and to send it to you if it is to be had." M. de Rueille was sorting out the letters, which had arrived during breakfast-time. "Here's a letter from your bookseller, grandmamma," he said; "he evidently has not been able to get it." "Open it, Paul, will you?" Rueille tore open the envelope, and, taking out the letter, read as follows: "MADAM,--It is quite impossible to get the book which your nephew asked for. As we were anxious to execute your order, we sent to several of the principal booksellers, and even wired to Paris, but we were informed that there is not, and there never has been, a book entitled, 'Le Baton de M. Molard.'"