“In that case, I shall come again soon; it is too good a chance not to make haste; somebody else will get ahead of me. Luckily Saint-Mandé isn’t far away, and there are the omnibuses. But you must help me a little, my dear fellow. Sound the uncle and niece and mention my young man to them.” “What young man?” “The one whom I shall propose as a husband; a fine young fellow of twenty-two, an only son, with some money, who wants to buy a drug shop. However, if he doesn’t suit, I have others. The important thing is to find out whether the girl has any previous attachment.--Do you know whether she has?” “By what right, Monsieur Giraud, should I ask that young lady such a question?” “Bah! one can always find that out, without asking; however, never mind, help me a little inside the house; and I will try to have Dupont help too. I must overtake him now. My friend, sound the young lady, I beg you. You can offer a very good-looking fellow, with a hundred thousand francs, and two handsome inheritances in prospect. By the way, if she doesn’t like the idea of a drug shop, which is very likely when she has twenty-five thousand francs a year, he will buy a solicitor’s practice--that will suit her better; or, if necessary, he won’t buy anything at all.--Hallo! I say, Dupont, here I am!--The deuce! he is quite capable of dining without me.” Giraud left me. I could not help laughing at his mania for marrying everybody; I had an idea that it was his only business, and that in addition to ordering the wedding banquet, he obtained a commission from the husband. If he relied upon me to speak to Mademoiselle Derbin, he would be disappointed in his expectations. Fancy my speaking in favor of a person whom I did not know! Indeed, I did not see that it was so necessary for people to marry at all. Three days had passed since that meeting. I had forgotten Giraud, and I am inclined to think that they thought little about him at Monsieur Roquencourt’s. I had gone out for a moment without my children; I did not intend to see Caroline, but she was at the window when I passed; she saw me and beckoned to me to come in. Her uncle was in the garden and she was alone in the salon. Since our parting at Mont-d’Or, for some reason or other I was always embarrassed when I was alone with her. For some time we did not speak. That is what often happens when two people have a great many things to say to each other. Caroline was sitting at her piano, but she did not play. “Why do I never hear you play now?” I asked. “Because it depresses you, and I do not see the sense of causing you pain.” “There are memories which are painful and sweet at the same time. I would like to hear once more that tune which you played the last time.” “And which made your daughter cry? Poor child! how dearly I love her!”