In this manner the words of Madame Dellion were fulfilled, who speaking of her son one day had said, “Gustave does not learn quickly, but he remembers what he has learned, and that is perhaps best.” “You know,” said Ernest seriously, “I can answer for Guitrel making a good bishop.” “So much the better,” replied Gustave, “because----” And he did not finish his sentence. They had now reached the exit, however. “I shall be in Paris until the end of the week,” said Bonmont. “Let me know how things are going; there is no time to lose, for the candidates are being chosen now. We will speak of the car at another time.” As they reached the flight of flag-decorated steps, he took Gustave’s hand in his and, holding it, impressed upon him: “No one must know. The thing is of the utmost moment, my dear Dellion, that no one shall know; not a soul must know that Madame de Gromance is going to Loyer at your request. Now that is understood, is it not?” “Quite,” replied Gustave, heartily shaking his friend’s hand. The same evening at eight o’clock young Bonmont went to visit his mother, whom he did not often see, but with whom he was on the friendliest possible terms, and found her finishing her toilet in the dressing-room. While her maid was arranging her hair she looked away from her reflection in the glass, and turning to her son: “You don’t look well,” she said. Ernest’s health had been worrying her for some time. Rara provided her with other more painful worries, but her son was, for all that, a source of anxiety. “How are you, mother?” “Oh, I’m very well.” “You look it.” “Did you know that your Uncle Wallstein has had a slight stroke?” “I’m not surprised; he shouldn’t be so gay at his time of life, it’s unnatural.” “He is not so very old, only fifty-two.” “Fifty-two is not what you might call youthful, exactly. By the way, what about the Brécés?” “The Brécés? What about them?” “Did they thank you for the ciborium?” “They sent their card, with a pencilled word of thanks.” “That’s not much.” “Well, _mon petit_, what else did you expect?” She rose to her feet and raised her hands above her head to fix a diamond cluster in her hair; standing thus her bare arms looked like two handles springing from a beautifully shaped amphora. Her shoulders gleamed under the electric light which shone through transparent shades shaped like bunches of fruit, and in the golden whiteness of the skin delicate blue veins ran down to the swell of her bosom. Her cheeks were rouged and her lips painted, but her face was still youthful in its health and vigour. The lines of her neck, which might have betrayed the passage of the years, were lost in the beauty of the skin. Young Bonmont studied her carefully for a few moments, and then said: “Mother, suppose you go and see Loyer too, and ask him about Abbé Guitrel?” CHAPTER XIV