At this moment the youth, with whom Madame Rondic had been talking at the door, came in and shook hands with his uncle Labassandre, who replied coldly to his greeting; thinking, possibly, of the remonstrances he had promised to lavish upon him. Zénaïde quickly followed: a plump little girl, red and out of breath; not pretty, and square in face and figure, she looked like her father. She wore a white cap, and her short skirts, and small shawl pinned over her shoulders, increased her general clumsiness. But her heavy eyebrows and square chin indicated an unusual amount of firmness and decision, offering the strongest possible contrast to the gentle, irresolute expression of her stepmother’s sweet face. Without a moment’s delay, not waiting to detach the enormous shears that hung at her side, or to disembarrass herself of the needles and pins which glittered on her breast like a cuirass, the girl slipped into a seat next to Jack. The presence of the strangers did not abash her in the least. Whatever she had to say she said, simply and decidedly; but when she spoke to her cousin Chariot, it was in a vexed tone. He did not appear to notice this, but replied with jests which left more than one scar. “And I wished them to marry each other,” said Father Rondic, in a despairing, complaining tone, as he heard them dispute. “And I made no objection,” said the young man with a laugh, as he looked at his cousin. “But I did, then,” answered the girl abruptly, frowning and unabashed. “And I am glad of it. Had I married you, my handsome cousin, I should have drowned myself by this time!” These words were said with so much unction that for a few moments the handsome cousin was silent and discomfited. Clarisse was startled, and turned to her daughter-in-law with a timid look of appeal. “Listen, Chariot,” said Rondic, anxious to change the conversation: “to prove to you that the Director is a good man. He has found a splendid place at Guérigny for you. You will have a better salary there than here, and “—here Rondic hesitated, glanced at the irresponsive face of the youth, then at his daughter and at his wife, as if at a loss to finish his phrase. “And, it is better to go away, uncle, than to be dismissed!” answered Chariot, roughly. “But I do not agree with you. If the Director does not want me, let him say so,—and I will then look out for myself!” “He is right!” cried Labassandre, thumping loud applause on the table. A hot discussion now arose; but Chariot was firm in his refusal. Zénaïde did not open her lips, but she never took her eyes from her stepmother, who was busy about the table. “And you, mamma,” said she at last, “is it not your opinion that Chariot should go to Guérigny?” “Certainly, certainly,” answered Madame Rondic, quickly, “I think he ought to accept the offer.” Chariot rose quickly from his chair.