"He is resolved to laugh at me." "Yes, yes, I say he is a mischievous fellow--the most dangerous dog in France; and so shy that, by my word, it requires a shrewd fellow like myself to discover his rogueries." "And so he deserves not only _all_ my sins, but a great deal more." "Stay--here is the Visconte de Charrebourg. Visconte, this is the Marquis de Secqville, my future nephew." The old visconte looked closely and dubiously for a moment in the young man's face. The marquis, on the contrary, seemed to have some little difficulty in suppressing a smile. "But that I know I have not had the honor of meeting you before, I should----but no doubt it is a family likeness. I knew your father when he was about your age, and a very handsome fellow, by my faith. Is his brother, the Conte de Cresseron, still living?" The old gentleman drew the marquis away before he had had time to pay his devoirs to Julie, who had shrunk at his approach into the background, and left the little group to themselves. "What do you think of him?" whispered Julie, resuming her place by Lucille. "He is pretty well." "Monsieur le Marquis is a handsome man," said Blassemare, who at that moment joined them; and, addressing Lucille, "You have seen him before?" "_I?_--no. He has just been presented to me for the first time." "And you think him----" "Rather handsome--indeed, _decidedly_ handsome; but, somehow, his melancholy spoils him. But I forgot, Julie--I ask your pardon, my pretty niece, for criticising your hero. Remember, however, I admit his beauty, though I can't admire him." There is no truth of which we have been reminded with such unnecessary reiteration, as the pretty obvious fact that every human enjoyment must, sooner or later, come to an end. The _fete_ at the Chateau des Anges had no exemption from this law of nature and necessity. Musicians, cooks, artists, and artisans of all sorts, gradually disappeared. At length the last equipage whirled down the great avenue, and a stillness and void, more mournful from the immediate contrast, supervened. The windows were closed--the yawning servants betook themselves to their beds, and the angel of sleep waved his downy wings over the old chateau. The genius of Blassemare was of that electric sort which is not easily unexcited. He could no more have slept than he could have transformed himself into one of the stone Tritons of the fountain by which in the moonlight he now stood alone. Blassemare had had a magnificent triumph; so well-contrived an entertainment had never, perhaps, been known before; and, like certain great generals, he felt desirous to visit the field of his victory after the heat of action was over. Monsieur Le Prun was also wide awake and astir from other causes. No vein of Blassemare's excitement--not even jealousy, nor conscience, nor any mental malady--kept him waking. The cause of his vigilance was, simply, his late supper and an indigestion.