“But if I was wrong, visit your anger on me alone. Forgive your nephew, invite him to dinner instead of us, and let me depart, regretting only that I was not judged worthy of calling you uncle, which would have been so pleasant and easy a name to speak. “JEANNE.” I read the two letters over aloud. Madeleine broke into sobs as she listened. A smile flickered about the corners of Jeanne’s mouth. We left the house, committing to Madeleine the task of choosing a favorable moment to hand M. Mouillard our joint entreaty. And here I may as well confess that from the instant we got out of the house, all through breakfast at the hotel, and for a quarter of an hour after it, M. Charnot treated me, in his best style, to the very hottest “talking-to” that I had experienced since my earliest youth. He ended with these words: “If you have not made your peace with your uncle by nine o’clock this evening, Monsieur, I withdraw my consent, and we shall return to Paris.” I strove in vain to shake his decision. Jeanne made a little face at me, which warned me I was on the wrong track. “Very well,” I said to her, “I leave the matter in your hands.” “And I leave it in the hands of God,” she answered. “Be a man. If trouble awaits us, hope will at any rate steal us a happy hour or two.” We were just then in front of the gardens of the Archbishop’s palace, so M. Charnot walked in. The current of his reflections was soon changed by the freshness of the air, the groups of children playing around their mothers--whom he studied ethnologically and with reference to the racial divisions of ancient Gaul--by the beauty of the landscape--its foreground of flowers, the Place St. Michel beyond, and further yet, above the barrack-roofs, the line of poplars lining the Auron. He ceased to be a father-in-law, and became a tourist again. Jeanne stepped with airy grace among the groups of strollers, and the murmurs which followed her path, though often envious, sounded none the less sweetly in my ears for that. I hoped to meet Mademoiselle Lorinet. After we had seen the gardens, we had to visit the Place Seraucourt, the Cours Chanzy, the cathedral, Saint-Pierrele-Guillard, and the house of Jacques-Coeur. It was six o’clock by the time we got back to the Hotel de France. A letter was waiting for us in the small and badly furnished entrance--hall. It was addressed to Mademoiselle Jeanne Charnot. I recognized at once the ornate hand of M. Mouillard, and grew as white as the envelope. M. Charnot cried, excitedly: “Read it, Jeanne. Read it, can’t you!” Jeanne alone of us three kept a brave face. She read: “MY DEAR CHILD: “I treated you perhaps with undue familiarity this morning, at a moment when I was not quite myself. Nevertheless, now that I have regained my senses, I do not withdraw the expressions of which I made use--I love you with all my heart; you are a dear girl.