“That is my wife. Conceal yourself!” cried Lescande, briskly; and he pushed Camors behind a clump of catalpas, as he turned to the balcony and lightly answered: “Yes, my dear; do you wish anything?” “Maxime is with you?” “Yes, mother. I am here,” cried the child. “It is a beautiful morning. Are you quite well?” “I hardly know. I have slept too long, I believe.” She opened the shutters, and, shading her eyes from the glare with her hand, appeared on the balcony. She was in the flower of youth, slight, supple, and graceful, and appeared, in her ample morning-gown of blue cashmere, plumper and taller than she really was. Bands of the same color interlaced, in the Greek fashion, her chestnut hair--which nature, art, and the night had dishevelled--waved and curled to admiration on her small head. She rested her elbows on the railing, yawned, showing her white teeth, and looking at her husband, asked: “Why do you look so stupid?” At the instant she observed Camors--whom the interest of the moment had withdrawn from his concealment--gave a startled cry, gathered up her skirts, and retired within the room. Since leaving college up to this hour, Louis de Camors had never formed any great opinion of the Juliet who had taken Lescande as her Romeo. He experienced a flash of agreeable surprise on discovering that his friend was more happy in that respect than he had supposed. “I am about to be scolded, my friend,” said Lescande, with a hearty laugh, “and you also must stay for your share. You will stay and breakfast with us?” Camors hesitated; then said, hastily, “No, no! Impossible! I have an engagement which I must keep.” Notwithstanding Camors’s unwillingness, Lescande detained him until he had extorted a promise to come and dine with them--that is, with him, his wife, and his mother-in-law, Madame Mursois--on the following Tuesday. This acceptance left a cloud on the spirit of Camors until the appointed day. Besides abhorring family dinners, he objected to being reminded of the scene of the balcony. The indiscreet kindness of Lescande both touched and irritated him; for he knew he should play but a silly part near this pretty woman. He felt sure she was a coquette, notwithstanding which, the recollections of his youth and the character of her husband should make her sacred to him. So he was not in the most agreeable frame of mind when he stepped out of his dog-cart, that Tuesday evening, before the little villa of the Avenue Maillot.