Although M. Desmarets was received at the house as a Chrysostom to whom great license of speech was allowed, his language had been so forcible that it had produced a certain embarrassment in the company, and an awkward silence ensued. Mme. Laroque broke it adroitly by asking her daughter whether it was eight o’clock. "It can’t be, mother," replied Mlle. Marguerite, "for Mlle. de Porhoët has not come yet." The minute after, as the clock struck, the door opened, and Mlle. Jocelynde de Porhoët-Gaël entered the room, with astronomical punctuality, on the arm of Dr. Desmarets. Mlle. de Porhoët-Gaël, who had this year seen her eighty-eighth spring, and whose appearance suggested a tall reed wrapped in silk, is the last scion of a noble race, whose earliest ancestors must be sought among the legendary kings of ancient Armorica. Of this house, however, there is no authentic record in history until the twelfth century, when Juthail, son of Conan le Tort, who belonged to the younger branch of the reigning family of Brittany, is mentioned. Some drops of the Porhoët blood have mingled with that of the most illustrious veins of France—those of the Rohans, the Lusignans, the Penthièvres, and these _grands seigneurs_ had admitted that it was not the least pure of their blood. I remember that when in a fit of youthful vanity I studied the alliances of my family, I noticed the strange name of Porhoët, and that my father, who was very learned in such matters, spoke highly in its praise. Mlle. de Porhoët, who is now the sole bearer of the name, had always refused to marry, because she wished to preserve as long as possible in the firmament of the French nobility the constellation of those magic syllables, Porhoët-Gaël. It happened one day that the origin of the house of Bourbon was referred to in her presence. "The Bourbons," said Mlle. de Porhoët, sticking her knitting-needle into her blond peruke, "the Bourbons are a good family, but" (with an air of modesty) "there are better."