Juste-Agénor’s second child, Julius, who since his marriage had lived a blameless life, had had several love affairs in his youth. But at any rate he could do himself this justice--he had never placed his affections beneath him. The fundamental distinction of his nature and that kind of moral elegance which was apparent in the slightest of his writings, had always prevented him from giving rein to his desires and from following a path down which his curiosity as a novelist would doubtless have urged him. His blood flowed calmly but not coldly, as many beautiful and aristocratic ladies might have testified.... And I should not have made any allusion to this fact, had not his early novels made it abundantly clear--to which, indeed, their remarkable success in the fashionable world was partly due. The high distinction of the public to which they appealed enabled one of them to appear in the _Correspondant_ and two others in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. And thus he found himself, almost without an effort and while he was still young, on the high road to the Academy. Already this destiny seemed marked out for him by his fine presence, by the grave unction of his look and by the pensive paleness of his brow. Anthime professed great contempt for the advantages of rank, fortune and looks--to Julius’s not unnatural mortification--but he appreciated a certain kindliness of disposition in Julius and a lack of skill in argument so great that free thought was often able to carry off the victory. * * * * * At six o’clock Anthime heard his guests’ carriage draw up at the door. He went out to meet them on the landing. Julius came up first. In his hard felt hat and his overcoat with silk _revers_, he would have seemed dressed for visiting rather than for travelling, had it not been for the plaid shawl he was carrying on his arm; the long journey had not in the least tried him. Marguerite de Baraglioul followed, leaning on her sister’s arm; she, on the other hand, was in a pitiable state; her bonnet and chignon awry, she stumbled upstairs with her face half hidden by her handkerchief, which she was holding pressed up against it like a poultice. As she drew near Anthime, “Marguerite has a bit of coal dust in her eye,” whispered Veronica. Julie, their daughter, a charming little girl of nine years old, and the maid, brought up the rear, in silent consternation. With a person like Marguerite, there was no question of making light of the matter. Anthime suggested sending for an oculist; but Marguerite knew all about the reputation of Italian saw-bones and wouldn’t hear of such a thing for the world. In a die-away voice she murmured: “Some cold water! Just a little cold water! Oh!” “Yes, my dear Marguerite,” went on Anthime, “cold water may relieve you for the moment, by bringing down the inflammation, but it won’t cure the evil.” Then, turning to Julius: “Were you able to see what it was?”