“She is somewhat of a socialist,” cried M. Moriaz. “I perceive it every January in making out her accounts, and it is fortunate that she intrusts this to me, for she never takes the trouble to look at the memorandum her banker sends her.” “I am proud for Poland that Mlle. Moriaz has a Polish failing,” said Abel Larinski, gallantly. “Is it a failing?” queried Antoinette. “Arithmetic is the most beautiful of the sciences and the mother of certainty,” said M. Moriaz. And turning towards the count, he added: “She is very wrong-headed, this girl of mine; she holds absolutely revolutionary principles, dangerous to public order and the preservation of society. Why, she maintains that people who are in need have a right to the superfluities of others!” “This appears to me self-evident,” said she. “And, for example,” further continued M. Moriaz, “she has among her _proteges_ a certain Mlle. Galard--” “Galet,” said Mlle. Moiseney, bridling up, for she had been impatiently awaiting an opportunity to put in a word. “This Mlle. Leontine Galet, who lives at No. 25 Rue Mouffetard--” “No. 27,” again interposed Mlle. Moiseney, in a magisterial tone. “As usual, you are sure of it, perfectly sure. Very good! This Mlle. Galard or Galet, residing at No. 25 or No. 27 Rue Mouffetard, was formerly a florist by trade, and now she has not a sou. I do not wish to fathom the mysteries of her past--it is very apt to be ‘lightly come, lightly go’ with the money of these people--but certain it is that Mlle. Galard--” “Galet,” put in Mlle. Moiseney, sharply. “Is to-day an infirm old woman, a worthy object of the compassion of charitable people,” continued M. Moriaz, heedless of this last interruption. “Mlle. Moriaz allows her a pension, with which I find no fault; but Mlle. Galet--I mistake, Mlle. Galard--has retained from her former calling her passion for flowers, and during the winter Mlle. Moriaz sends her every week a bouquet costing from ten to twelve francs, which shows, according to my opinion, a lack of common-sense. In the month of January last, she sent for Parma violets for this _protégé_ of hers. Now, I appeal to M. Larinski--is this reasonable, or is it absurd?” “It is admirably absurd and foolishly admirable,” replied the count. “The flowers I give her are never so beautiful as some that were sent me the other day,” exclaimed Mlle. Moriaz. She went then into the next room, and returned, carrying the vase of water containing the mysterious bouquet. “What do you think of these?” she asked the count. “They are already much faded, and yet I think they are beautiful still.” He admired the bouquet; but, although Antoinette regarded him fixedly, she detected neither blush nor confusion on his face. “It was not he,” she said to herself.