HE came in smiling, of course. When was the Abbé to be caught without his self-possessed smile, his easy manner, and his carefully-arranged dress? On the present occasion he carried with him some rare flowers as well. The Marquise sprang at them almost before he had time to offer his elaborate homage, while he bent over her extended hand. He snatched the nosegay away, however, with great quickness, and held it behind his back. “Pardon, madame,” said he, “this is forbidden fruit. As such I bring it into the garden of Paradise; where my cousin dwells there is Eden, and the resemblance is the more striking that neither here are found mirrors to offend me with the reflection of my own ugly face. Consequently, my attention is concentrated on yourself. I look at you, Marquise, as Adam looked at Eve. Bah! that father of horticulture was but a husband. I should rather say, as the subtle creature who relieved their domestic _tête-à-tête_ looked at the lady presiding over that charming scene. I look at you, I say, with delight and admiration, for I find you beautiful!” “And is it to tell me this important news that you are abroad so early?” asked the Marquise, laughing gaily, while she pointed to the easy-chair she had just left. “Sit down, Monsieur l’Abbé, and try to talk sense for five minutes. You can be rational; none more so, when you choose. I want your opinion—nay, I even think I want your advice. Mind, I don’t promise to take it, that of course! Don’t look so interested. It’s not about myself. It’s about Cerise.” “How can I look anything else?” asked the Abbé, whose face, to do him justice, never betrayed his thoughts or feelings. “Madame, or Mademoiselle, both are near and dear to me—too much so for my own repose.” He sighed, and laid his white hand on his breast. She was so accustomed to his manner that she never troubled herself whether he was in jest or earnest. Moreover, she was at present engrossed with her daughter’s future, and proceeded thoughtfully. “Cerise is a woman now, my cousin. Her girlhood is past, and she has arrived at an age when every woman should think of establishing herself in life. Pardon! that bouquet is in your way; put it down yonder in the window-sill.” The Abbé rose and placed the flowers in the open window, whence a light air from without wafted their sweet and heavy perfume into the apartment. When he reseated himself the Marquise had relapsed into silence. She was thinking deeply, with her eyes fixed on the dead musketeer in the picture. The Abbé spoke first. He began in a low tone of emotion, that, if fictitious, was admirably assumed.