A week before, and these words would have scarcely been noticed by Jack, but since the previous night he had not been the same person. His pride was now so wounded that he would have returned to Aulnettes without seeing his mother, had he not wished to speak to her most seriously. He entered the salon; it was in disorder: chairs and benches were being brought in, for a great fête was in progress of arrangement, which was the reason that D’Argenton was so out of temper on seeing Jack. Charlotte did not appear pleased, but stopped in some of her preparations. “Is it you, my dear Jack. You come for money, too, I fancy. I forgot it utterly,—that is, I begged Dr. Hirsch to hand it to you. He is going to Aulnettes in two or three days to make some very curious experiments with perfumes. He has made an extraordinary discovery.” They were talking in the centre of the room; a half dozen workmen were going to and fro, driving nails, and moving the furniture. “I wish to speak seriously,” said Jack. “What! now? You know that serious conversation is not my forte; and to-day all is in confusion. We have sent out five hundred invitations, it will be superb! Come here, then, if it is absolutely necessary. I have arranged a veranda for smoking. Come and see if it is not convenient?” She went with him into a veranda covered with striped cotton, furnished with a sofa and jardinière, but rather dismal-looking with the rain pattering on the zinc roof. Jack said to himself, “I had better have written,” and did not know what to say first. “Well?” said Charlotte, leaning her chin on her hand in that graceful attitude that some women adopt when they listen. He hesitated a moment, as one hesitates in placing a heavy load upon an étagère of trifles, for that which he had to say seemed too much for that pretty little head that leaned toward him. “I should like—I should like to talk to you of my father,” he said, with some hesitation. On the end of her tongue she had the words, “What folly!” If she did not utter them, the expression of her face, in which were to be read amazement and fear, spoke for her. “It is too sad for us, my child, to discuss. But still, painful as it is to me, I understand your feelings, and am ready to gratify you. Besides,” she added, solemnly, “I have always intended, when you were twenty, to reveal to you the secret of your birth.” It was time now for him to look astonished. Had she forgotten that three months previous she had made this disclosure. Nevertheless, he uttered no protest, he wished to compare her story of to-day with an older narration. How well he knew her! “Is it true that my father was noble?” he asked, suddenly. “Indeed he was, my child.” “A marquis?” “No, only a baron.” “But I supposed—in fact, you told me—” “No, no—it was the elder branch of the Bulac family that was noble.” “He was connected then with the Bulac family?” “Most assuredly. He was the head of the younger branch.” “And his name was—”