"Now, then, listen to me," began Mme. Bourjot once more, "my husband will give you his daughter." "How foolish you are, really, Laure." "Don't interrupt me--my husband will give you his daughter. I fancy he intends asking his son-in-law to live in the same house. Of course you would be quite free--your suite of rooms, your carriage, meals, and everything quite apart--you know what our style of living is. Unless M. Bourjot has changed his mind, she will have a dowry of forty thousand pounds, and unless he should lose his money, which I do not think is very probable, you will have, at our death, four or five times that amount." "And how can you seriously imagine that Mlle. Bourjot, who has forty thousand pounds, and who will have four or five times that much, would marry----" "I am her mother," answered Mme. Bourjot in a decisive tone. "And then--don't you love her? Why, it would merely be a kind of marriage of expediency," and Mme. Bourjot smiled. "You provide her with happiness." "But what will the world say?" "The world? My dear boy, we should close the world's mouth with truffles," and she gave her shoulders a little shrug. "And M. Bourjot?" "That's my part. He will like you very much before the end of two months. The only thing is, as you know, he will want a title; he has always intended his daughter to marry a count. All I can do is to get him to consent to a name tacked on to yours. Nothing is simpler, nowadays, than to get permission to add to one's name the name of some estate, or forest, or even the name of a meadow, or a bit of land of any sort. Didn't I hear some one talking to your mother about a farm called Villacourt that you have in the Haute-Marne? _Mauperin de Villacourt_; that would do very well. You know, as far as I am concerned, how little I care about such things." "Oh, but it would be so ridiculous, with my principles, and a Liberal, too, bound as I am. And then, you know----" "Oh, you can say it is a whim of your wife's. Every one goes about with names like that now; it's a sort of cross people have to bear. Shall I say a word for you to any one in authority?" "Oh, no; no, please don't! I didn't think I had said anything which could make you imagine I should be inclined to accept. I don't really know, frankly. You understand that I should have to think it over, I should have to collect myself and consider what my duty is; to be more myself, in fact, and less influenced by you, before I could give you an answer." "I shall call on your mother this week," said Mme. Bourjot, getting up and pressing his hand. "Good-bye," she said sadly; "life _is_ a sacrifice!" XXII