“Amant gentil Qui chante, qui rit, Joli, poli, Fidèle? Mais, Oui Comme Mousquetaire, comme Mousquetaire, Comme Mousquetaire, Du roi Louis.” At which conclusive point in its argument Pierrot interrupted the ballad with a deafening shriek, and Madame, sliding the panel back, passed into the apartment. She was dressed in a simple morning toilet of white, with scarlet breast-knots, and a ribbon of the same colour gathering the shining masses of her black hair. It suited her well. Even Pierrot, gazing at her with head on one side, and upturned eye, seemed to be of this opinion, though bigger and better talkers by rote had probably long ago informed her of the fact. She had a large _bouquet_ of flowers, fresh gathered, in her hand, and she gave the bird a caressing word or two as she moved through her boudoir, disposing of them here and there to the best advantage; then she selected a few of the rarest, and put them carefully in water, telling the parrot “these are for Cerise, Pierrot,” and endeavouring to make it repeat her daughter’s name. Of course, without success; though on other occasions this refractory pupil would shriek these well-known syllables, time after time, till the very cook, far off in the basement, was goaded to swear hideously, wishing in good Gascon he had the accursed fowl picked and trussed and garnished with olives in the stew-pan. Cerise had been brought back from her pension in Normandy, as we have seen, partly by Malletort’s advice, partly because her mother longed to have the girl by her side once more. They had been inseparable formerly, and it is possible she was conscious, without confessing it, that her whole character deteriorated during her daughter’s absence. So the heavy family coach, postilions, outriders, footmen, and all, rolled into the courtyard of the Hôtel Montmirail, after a slight delay, as we have seen, at one of the barriers, and deposited its freight to the great jubilation of the whole household. These were never tired of praising mademoiselle’s beauty, mademoiselle’s grace—her refinement, her manners, her acquirements, her goodness of heart, were on every lip. But though she said less about it than the domestics, nobody in her establishment was so alive to the merits of Cerise as her mother. In good truth, the Marquise loved her daughter very dearly. She never thought she could love anything half so much, except—except perhaps, the germ of a new idea that had lately been forming itself in her heart, and of which the vague shadowy uncertainty, the shame, the excuses, the unwillingness with which she acknowledged it, constituted no small portion of the charm. Is it possible that Love is painted blind because, if people could see before them, they would never be induced to move a step along the pleasant path?—the pleasant path that leads through cool shades and clustering roses, down the steep bank where the nettles