“I will do my duty toward my husband. I will be so good a wife that I will transform him. He has religion. He has heart. It will be my role to make of him a true Christian. And then I shall have my children and the poor.” Such were the thoughts which filled the mind of the envied betrothed. For her the journals began to describe the dresses already prepared, for her a staff of tailors, dressmakers, needlewomen and jewellers were working; she would have on her contract the same signature as a princess of the blood, who would be a princess herself and related to one of the most glorious aristocracies in the world. Such were the thoughts she would no doubt have through life, as she walked in the garden of the Palais Castagna, that historical garden in which is still to be seen a row of pear-trees, in the place where Sixte-Quint, near death, gathered some fruit. He tasted it, and he said to Cardinal Castagna--playing on their two names, his being Peretti--“The pears are spoiled. The Romans have had enough. They will soon eat chestnuts.” That family anecdote enchanted Justus Hafner. It seemed to him full of the most delightful humor. He repeated it to his colleagues at the club, to his tradesmen, to it mattered not whom. He did not even mistrust Dorsenne’s irony. “I met Hafner this morning on the Corso,” said the latter to Alba at one of the soirees at the end of the month, “and I had my third edition of the pleasantry on the pears and chestnuts. And then, as we took a few steps in the same direction, he pointed out to me the Palais Bonaparte, saying, ‘We are also related to them.’.... Which means that a grand-nephew of the Emperor married a cousin of Peppino.... I swear he thinks he is related to Napoleon!... He is not even proud of it. The Bonapartes are nowhere when it is a question of nobility!... I await the time when he will blush.” “And I the time when he will be punished as he deserves,” interrupted Alba Steno, in a mournful voice. “He is insolently triumphant. But no. ....He will succeed.... If it be true that his fortune is one immense theft, think of those he has ruined. In what can they believe in the face of his infamous happiness?” “If they are philosophers,” replied Dorsenne, laughing still more gayly, “this spectacle will cause them to meditate on the words uttered by one of my friends: ‘One can not doubt the hand of God, for it created the world.’ Do you remember a certain prayer-book of Montluc’s?” “The one which your friend Montfanon bought to vex the poor little thing?”