M. de Brisac laid down the newspaper to pour forth compliments of condolence.--Mrs. Somers tore the piece of paper as he approached the table, and said, with some asperity, “One would think this was a matter of life and death, by the terms in which it is deplored.” M. de Brisac, who stood so that Mrs. Somers could not see him, shrugged his shoulders, and looked at Mad. de Coulanges, who answered him by another look, that plainly said, “This is English politeness!” Emilie, who saw that her mother was displeased, endeavoured to change the course of her thoughts, by begging M. de Brisac to go on with what he was reading from the French papers. This was a fresh provocation to Mrs. Somers, who forgot that Emilie had not read the words on the slip of paper which had been torn; and consequently could not know all Mrs. Somers’ impatience for his departure. M. de Brisac read, in what this lady called his _unemphatic French tone_, paragraph after paragraph, and column after column, whilst her anxiety to have him go every moment increased. She moulded her son’s letter into all manner of shapes as she sat in penance. To complete her misfortunes, something in the paper put Mad. de Coulanges in mind of former times; and she began a long history of the destruction of some fine old tapestry hangings in the Chateau de Coulanges, at the beginning of the Revolution: this led to endless melancholy reflections; and at length tears began to flow from the fine eyes of the countess. Just at this instant a butterfly flew into the room, and passed by Mad. de Coulanges, who was sitting near the open window. “Oh! the beautiful butterfly!” cried she, starting up to catch it. “Did you ever see such a charming creature? Catch it, M. de Brisac!--Catch it, Emilie!--Catch it, Mrs. Somers!” With the tears yet upon her cheeks, Mad. de Coulanges began the chase, and M. de Brisac followed, beating the air with his perfumed handkerchief, and the butterfly fluttered round the table at which Emilie was standing. “Eh! M. de Brisac, catch it!--Catch it, Emilie!” repeated her mother.--“Catch it, Mrs. Somers, for the love of Heaven!” “_For the love of Heaven_!” repeated Mrs. Somers, who, immovably grave, and sullenly indignant, kept aloof during this chase. “Ah! pour le coup, papillon, je te tiens!” cried la comtesse, and with eager joy she covered it with a glass, as it lighted on the table. “Mlle. de Coulanges,” cried Mrs. Somers, “I acknowledge, now, that I was wrong in my criticism of Caroline de Lichteld. I blamed the author for representing Caroline, at fifteen, or just when she is going to be married, as running after butterflies. I said that, at that age, it was too frivolous--out of drawing--out of nature. But I should have said only, that it was out of _English nature_.--I stand corrected.”