“Mamma,” cried Valentine, throwing her arms around her mother’s neck, and with a caressing and infantine movement mingling the waves of her lustrous hair with the fine, heavy gray curls, “did you not say that the anniversary of your birth would come in two weeks, the second of next month, and that you would love to see Alfred and me choose that day to celebrate our betrothal?” “Yes, my darling,” replied Madame de Guers gently. “Very well, dear mamma, it is all arranged; we will exchange our rings on the same day that gave me so dear a mamma. But have you decided anything about the invitations?” “I have at least thought of them, my child. We will have, I think, the greater part of those of our own society, and especially, you understand, all your young friends.” “Yes, just as you wish. But is it to be only for the evening, dear mamma?” “Ah! my little ambitious one wishes to give a whole day to her _fête_.” “Indeed I do, mamma; I have dreamed of it even, so I may as well confess. I want particularly in the morning to have those I invite al to myself; I will receive them, lodge them, and serve them with my own hands. O mamma! it will be so nice, in the shady part of the garden, among the flowers, to set the long tables, and have an excellent breakfast, good wine, cakes, a roast, and Pierrot the violinist with his violin, and the baskets all filled with flowers! And my guests will be so surprised, and so pleased, my dear good mamma!” “But who are they, then?” “Your old women, dear mamma.” Madame de Guers’s response was to take the pretty brown head of the charming child in her trembling hands, and to press it tenderly and long upon her lips, while a gentle shivering of admiration and love made her heart beat. “It is said,” she replied at last; “the table shall be set for fifteen, and there shall be cakes and violins, and wine and flowers. 219 You shall serve them, my child, and my old people will believe they are at the wedding.” Then, as the first stars began to dot the pure sky, and the happy and united group rose to leave the perfumed shelter of the garden, Madame de Guers, more joyous and prouder than ever, held back on purpose to let the young people pass before her, while she whispered in the ear of her old friend, who was philosophically taking in the whole scene: “My good Maubars, did you not say, just now, my Valentine is a treasure?” II.