It was about two o’clock and Albert was invited to have a meal with them. There were very few words exchanged between Albert and Eugenie. All the talk was between her father and Albert—about the Emperor. M. Chauraux did not mind his daughter’s accompanying the young man for a little distance. They had had a bottle of Burgundy between them and the young man admired the Emperor. The Frenchman had become quite loquacious and invited Albert to come again—any time whenever he could spare an hour from his business. Who could tell? The young man talked so well, seemed so prosperous, and loved the Emperor so much!—Who could tell? He might be a proper _parti_. M. Chauraux’s regard for Albert increased when, several days later, the young man read to him a poem about Napoleon. The Frenchman did not quite grasp the verses in German but when Albert gave him the substance of it in French and then read the original to him, with unshed tears in his eyes, he even understood the German. The young poet declaimed his verses with passionate abandon, music in his voice, tears in his eyes. The eyes of M. Chauraux, too, were clouded, the tuft of hair under his lower lip quivered, and he shook his head and sighed and murmured “_Mein Kaiser, mein Kaiser gefangen!_” M. Chauraux wiped a tear away. Who could tell? This young man, though not French, certainly loved the Emperor, and was evidently not averse to Eugenie—yes, he might be a proper _parti_ for Eugenie. One day, when Eugenie came into the house, having escorted Albert down the road, her father was seated at the table—there was only one table and one room which served as dining and living room—his arms resting upon it, as was his wont; his bushy eyebrows frowning as if he were working on a hard puzzle; his eyes staring in front; his short, stubby fingers drumming absently upon the table. He glanced at his daughter and noticed the expression of exultation on her face. “A talented young man, hein?” said the father, without removing his arms from the table, and looking directly at her. “Yes, he is,” Eugenie replied demurely, as was becoming a virtuous girl when her father makes reference to a young man. “Very talented—very,” he repeated and turned in the direction of the window to his left. “Not a bad sort.” Eugenie was silent and began busying herself with some household duties. “_Mein Kaiser, mein Kaiser gefangen!_” hummed M. Chauraux, nodding his head sorrowfully and lightly tapping the table with the tips of his fingers. “He might make a good husband for some nice girl,” the father said apropos of nothing a little later. Eugenie was scouring a copper kettle and her head lowered as she applied herself to the utensil with more determination, without making any comment.