man, who, besides, was the executor of my father’s will. He had the control of the money that my dear father had left me. I was not to touch it until the day of my marriage, but my mother was to use the interest for my education. My uncle Félix Faure was also there. Seated near the fireplace, buried in an armchair, M. Meydieu pulled out his watch in a querulous way. He was an old friend of the family, and he always called me “_ma fille_,” which annoyed me greatly, as did his familiarity. He considered me stupid, and when I handed him his coffee, he said in a jeering tone: “And is it for you, _ma fille_, that so many honest people have been hindered in their work? We have plenty of other things to attend to, I can assure you, than to discuss the fate of a little brat like you. Ah, if it had been her sister, there would have been no difficulty!” and with his benumbed fingers he patted Jeanne’s head as she remained on the floor plaiting the fringe of the sofa upon which he was seated. When the coffee was taken, the cups carried away, and my sister also, there was a short silence. The Duc de Morny rose to take his leave, but my mother begged him to stay. “You will be able to advise us,” she urged, and the duke took his seat again near my aunt with whom it seemed to me he was carrying on a slight flirtation. Mamma had moved nearer to the window, her embroidery frame in front of her, and her beautiful, clear-cut profile showing to advantage against the light. She looked as though she had nothing to do with what was about to be discussed. The hideous notary was standing up by the chimney-piece, and my uncle had drawn me near to him. My godfather Régis seemed to be the exact counterpart of M. Meydieu. They both of them had the same _bourgeois_ mind and were equally stubborn and obstinate. They were both devoted to whist and good wine, and they both agreed that I was thin enough for a scarecrow. The door opened and a pale, dark-haired woman entered, a most poetical-looking and charming creature. It was Mme. Guérard, “the lady of the upstairs flat,” as Marguerite always called her. My mother had made friends with her in rather a patronizing way certainly, but Mme. Guérard was devoted to me and endured the little slights to which she was treated, very patiently, for my sake. She was tall and slender as a lath, very compliant and demure. She had come down without a hat; she was wearing an indoor gown of indienne with a design of little brown leaves.