“Take a seat, Chesnel,” said the lady, as she returned, and with womanly tact she explained away and softened the Marquis’ harshness. And yet beneath that harshness Chesnel saw a great affection. The Marquis’ attachment for his old servant was something of the same order as a man’s affection for his dog; he will fight any one who kicks the animal, the dog is like a part of his existence, a something which, if not exactly himself, represents him in that which is nearest and dearest--his sensibilities. “It is quite time that M. le Comte should be sent away from the town, mademoiselle,” he said sententiously. “Yes,” returned she. “Has he been indulging in some new escapade?” “No, mademoiselle.” “Well, why do you blame him?” “I am not blaming him, mademoiselle. No, I am not blaming him. I am very far from blaming him. I will even say that I shall never blame him, whatever he may do.” There was a pause. The Chevalier, nothing if not quick to take in a situation, began to yawn like a sleep-ridden mortal. Gracefully he made his excuses and went, with as little mind to sleep as to go and drown himself. The imp Curiosity kept the Chevalier wide awake, and with airy fingers plucked away the cotton wool from his ears. “Well, Chesnel, is it something new?” Mlle. Armande began anxiously. “Yes, things that cannot be told to M. le Marquis; he would drop down in an apoplectic fit.” “Speak out,” she said. With her beautiful head leant on the back of her low chair, and her arms extended listlessly by her side, she looked as if she were waiting passively for her deathblow. “Mademoiselle, M. le Comte, with all his cleverness, is a plaything in the hands of mean creatures, petty natures on the lookout for a crushing revenge. They want to ruin us and bring us low! There is the President of the Tribunal, M. de Ronceret; he has, as you know, a very great notion of his descent----” “His grandfather was an attorney,” interposed Mlle. Armande.