That morning there were no guests to lunch at 32 Place Vendome, so that towards one o’clock might have been seen the majestic form of M. Barreau, gleaming white at the gate, among four or five of his scullions in their cook’s caps, and as many stable-boys in Scotch caps--an imposing group, which gave to the house the aspect of an hotel where the staff was taking the air between the arrivals of the trains. To complete the resemblance, a cab drew up before the door and the driver took down an old leather trunk, while a tall old woman, her upright figure wrapped in a little green shawl, jumped lightly to the footpath, a basket on her arm, looked at the number with great attention, then approached the servants to ask if it was there that M. Bernard Jansoulet lived. “It is here,” was the answer; “but he is not in.” “That does not matter,” said the old lady simply. She returned to the driver, who put her trunk in the porch, and paid him, returning her purse to her pocket at once with a gesture that said much for the caution of the provincial. Since Jansoulet had been deputy for Corsica, the domestics had seen so many strange and exotic figures at his house, that they were not surprised at this sunburnt woman, with eyes glowing like coals, a true Corsican under her severe coif, but different from the ordinary provincial in the ease and tranquility of her manners. “What, the master is not here?” said she, with an intonation which seemed better fitted for farm people in her part of the country, than for the insolent servants of a great Parisian mansion. “No, the master is not here.” “And the children?” “They are at lessons. You cannot see them.” “And madame?” “She is asleep. No one sees her before three o’clock.” It seemed to astonish the good woman a little that any one could stay in bed so late; but the tact which guides a refined nature, even without education, prevented her from saying anything before the servants, and she asked for Paul de Gery. “He is abroad.” “Bompain Jean-Baptiste, then.” “He is with monsieur at the sitting.” Her great gray eyebrows wrinkled. “It does not matter; take up my trunk just the same.” And with a little malicious twinkle of her eye, a proud revenge for their insolent looks, she added: “I am his mother.” The scullions and stable-boys drew back respectfully. M. Barreau raised his cap: “I thought I had seen madame somewhere.” “And I too, my lad,” answered Mme. Jansoulet, who shivered still at the remembrance of the Bey’s _fete_. “My lad,” to M. Barreau, to a man of his importance! It raised her at once to a very high place in the esteem of the others.