“Of whom do you speak?” replied Antoinette, whose colour rose in her cheeks. “Of a most charming man, who, either through inconceivable stupidity, or through most criminal calculation, neglected to tell us that he was married.” And with these words, Mlle. Moiseney extended both arms, that she might receive into them Mlle. Moriaz, whom she believed to be already swooning. Mlle. Moriaz did not swoon. She flushed crimson, then grew very pale; but she remained standing, her head proudly erect, and she said, in a tone of well-feigned indifference: “Oh! M. Larinski is married? My very sincere compliments to the Countess Larinski.” After which she busied herself arranging in a vase the heather and ferns she had brought back with her. Mlle. Moiseney stood lost in astonishment at her calm; she gazed in a stupor at her, and suddenly exclaimed: “Thank God! you do not love him! Your father has mistaken, he often mistakes; he sometimes gets the strangest ideas into his mind; he was persuaded that this would be a death-blow to you; he does not know you at all. Ah! unquestionably, M. Larinski is far from being disagreeable; I do not dispute his having some merit; but I always thought that there was something suspicious about him; his manners were a little equivocal; I suspected him of hiding something from us. As it appears, he has made a _mesalliance_ that he did not care to acknowledge. It is deplorable that a man of such excellent address should have low tastes and doubtful morality. His duty was to tell us all; he was neither loyal nor delicate.” “You dream, my dear,” replied Antoinette. “What law, human or divine, obliged M. Larinski to tell us everything? Did you expect him to render an account of his deeds and misdeeds to us as to a tribunal of penance?” In speaking thus, she took off her hat and mantilla, seated herself in the embrasure of a window, and opened a book which she began to read with great attention. “God be praised! she does not love him,” thought Mlle. Moiseney, who was not aware that Mlle. Moriaz was turning two or three pages at a time with perceiving it. Deeply absorbed as she was, she still recognised her father’s step as he came upstairs to his room. She hurried out to meet him. He noticed with pleasure that her face was not wan, nor were her eyes red. He was less satisfied when she said, in a calm, clear voice: “Please show me the letter that you have received from Mme. de Lorcy.” “What is the use?” he rejoined. “I know it by heart. I am ready to recite it to you.” “Is it a letter that cannot be shown?” “No, indeed; but as I tell you that I am ready to give you an account of it--” “I would prefer to read it with my own eyes.” “After all, you have a right. There! take it. But I beg of you do not be offended by unfortunate expressions.” “Mme. de Lorcy always knows how to choose the proper word to express her thought,” she responded.