The mother, meanwhile, having disposed her chamber to her liking, sank into the recesses of a deep arm-chair, and began to speculate on her daughter’s future. It is not to be supposed that such an important consideration as the child’s marriage now occupied her attention for the first time. Indeed her habits, her education, the opinions of that society in which she lived, even her own past, with its vicissitudes and experiences, seemed to urge on her the necessity of taking some step towards an early settlement in life for her attractive girl. Cerise was beautiful, no doubt, thought the Marquise; not indeed in her mother’s wicked, provoking style, of which that mother well knew the power, but with the innocent beauty of an angel. At such a Court, it was good she should be provided as soon as possible with a legitimate protector. Of suitors there would be no lack, for two strains of the best blood in France united in the person of this fair damsel, whose wealth, besides, would make her a desirable acquisition to the noblest gentleman in the realm. Then she reviewed in turn all the eligible matches she could think of in the large circle of her acquaintance; scanning them mentally, one after another, with the proverbial fastidiousness that, looking for a perfectly straight stick, traverses the wood from end to end in vain. The first man was too young, the second too old, a third too clever, a fourth too stupid. Count Point d’Appui had been hawked at by all the beauties in Paris, and owned half Picardy; but she was afraid of him. No, she could not trust him with her Cerise. He was worn out, debauched, one of the roués, and worse than the Regent! Then there was the Marquis de la Force Manquée, he would have been the very thing, but he had sustained a paralytic stroke. Ah! she knew it. The family might hush it up, talk of a fall in hunting, a shock to the system, a cold bath after exercise, but Fagon had told her what it was. The late king’s physician should understand such matters, and she was not to be deceived! To be sure, there was still the Duc de Beaublafard left—noble rank, tolerable possessions, easy temper, and a taste for the fine arts. She wavered a long time, but decided against him at last. “It is a pity!” said the Marquise, in a half-whisper, shaking her head, and gazing thoughtfully at Pierrot; “a thousand pities! but I dare not risk it. He is too good-looking—even for a lover—decidedly for a husband!”