'Mine and Mademoiselle de Merode's!' repeated the astounded son, who seemed half doubtful whether he saw or heard aright. 'Yes. No wonder you are surprised. So distinguished a connection could hardly, under the circumstances, have been hoped for; and it would have been cruel to have given you any intimation on the subject whilst there was a chance of the negotiation issuing unfavourably. Your wife and you will, for the present, at all events, take up your abode at Mon Sejour; and I must consequently look out at once for a smaller, a more bachelor-suiting residence.' 'My wife and me!' echoed Veron junior with the same air of stupid amazement as before--'My wife and me!' Recovering a little, he added: 'Confound it, there must be some mistake here. Do you know, _mon pere_, that this Mademoiselle de Merode is not at all to my taste? I would as soon marry'---- 'No folly, Eugene, if you please,' interrupted M. de Veron. 'The affair, as I have told you, is decided. You will marry Mademoiselle de Merode; or if not, he added with iron inflexibility of tone and manner--'Eugene de Veron is likely to benefit very little by his father's wealth, which the said Eugene will do well to remember is of a kind not very difficult of transference beyond the range of the law of inheritance which prevails in France. The leprosy of the Revolution,' continued M. de Veron as he rose and put on his hat, 'may indeed be said to have polluted our very hearths, when we find children setting up their opinions, and likings and dislikings, forsooth! against their fathers' decision, in a matter so entirely within the parental jurisdiction as that of a son or daughter's marriage.' Eugene did not reply; and after assisting his father--who limped a little in consequence of having severely sprained his ankle some eight or ten days previously--to a light one-horse carriage in waiting outside, he returned to the office, and resumed his seat, still in a maze of confusion, doubt, and dismay. 'How could,' he incoherently muttered--'how could my father--how could anybody suppose that----How could he especially be so blind as not to have long ago perceived----What a contrast!' added Eugene de Veron jumping up, breaking into passionate speech, and his eyes sparkling as if he was actually in presence of the dark-eyed divinity whose image filled his brain and loosed his tongue--'what a contrast! Adeline, young, roseate, beautiful as Spring, lustrous as Juno, graceful as Hebe! Oh, _par exemple_, Mademoiselle de Merode, you, with your high blood and skinny bones, must excuse me. And poor, too, poor as Adeline! Decidedly, the old gentleman must be crazed, and--and let me see----Ay, to be sure, I must confer with Edouard at once.'