“Waverley, or, Scotland Sixty Years Ago,” said she, as she read the title. “I took the first one on the shelf, because you are going to lend them all to me, one by one, are you not? Claire says that a young girl can read Walter Scott, and that his books are very nice.” “We shall see whether you are sensible,” replied Clemence, smiling; “but, above all things, do not let my aunt see these books, for I am the one who would get the scolding.” “Do not worry;--I will go and hide them in my room.” She went as far as the door, then stopped and came back a few steps. “It seems,” said she, “that Monsieur de Gerfaut worked in the library yesterday, for there are piles of books on the table. It is very kind of him to be willing to make this tree, is it not? Shall we both be in it? Do they put women in such things? I hope your aunt will not be there; she is not one of our family.” Clemence’s face clouded again at the name of Gerfaut. “I know no more about it than you,” she replied, a little harshly. “The reason I asked is because there are only pictures of men in the drawing-room; it is not very polite on their part. I should much prefer that there should be portraits of our grandmothers; it would be so amusing to see the beautiful dresses that they wore in those days rather than those old beards which frighten me. But perhaps they do not put young girls in genealogical trees,” she continued, in a musing tone. “You might ask Monsieur de Gerfaut; he wishes to please you too much to refuse to tell you,” said Clemence, with an almost ironical smile. “Do you think so?” asked Aline, innocently. “I should never dare to ask him.” “You are still afraid of him, then?” “A little,” replied the young girl, lowering her eyes, for she felt her face flush. This symptom made Madame de Bergenheim more vexed than ever, and she continued, in a cutting, sarcastic tone: “Has your cousin d’Artigues written you lately?” Mademoiselle de Bergenheim raised her eyes and looked at her for a moment with an indifferent air: “I don’t know,” she said, at last. “What! you do not know whether you have received a letter from your cousin?” continued Clemence, laughing affectedly. “Ah! Alphonse--no, that is, yes; but it was a long time ago.” “How cold and indifferent you are all of a sudden to this dear Alphonse! You do not remember, then, how you wept at his departure, a year ago, and how vexed you were with your brother who tried to tease you about this beautiful affection, and how you swore that you would never have any other husband than your cousin?” “I was a simpleton, and Christian was right. Alphonse is only one year older than I! Think of it, what a fine couple we should make! I know that I am not very sensible, and so it is necessary that my husband should be wise enough for both. Christian is nine years older than you, is he not?” “Do you think that is too much?” asked Madame de Bergenheim. “Quite the contrary.” “What age should you like your husband to be?”