Marianne blushed. She remembered what her father had said regarding their quarrels with the Baradiers and Graffs, and felt considerably embarrassed in consequence. What kind of relations could be set up between these hostile families? Suddenly the smiling face of Marcel Baradier awoke in her memory. The hostility of the parents could not bind the children, since he had so graciously received Lichtenbach’s daughter when she had called at the Rue de Provènce. Turning her eyes in the direction of Geneviève, she recognized the one of whom she was thinking, near the counter where Madame Baradier and Amélie were selling. He smiled as he talked to an old man who was purchasing a porcelain vase of a very ugly pattern. After the bargain was struck he took it from his hands, placed it gaily back again on to the stall, and said, in tones sufficiently loud to be heard by Marianne— “This is the third time, Uncle Graff, that we have sold it, and it has been left behind. People don’t object to paying for it, but it is so frightful that no one will decide to carry it off.” The old man put back his purse into his pocket and said— “Now, where is the stall of Mademoiselle de Trémont?” “We will go there together. The very thing you want, uncle. _Trousseau_ and baby linen. Indispensable for bachelors!” “You rogue!” They crossed the room. Suddenly Marcel became very grave; he had recognized Mademoiselle Lichtenbach. She, too, had seen him approach, and, trembling, had not had the courage to look him in the face. Uncle Graff, with his usual good nature, said— “Well, Mademoiselle Geneviève, what are you going to sell me? Children’s hoods? How much a dozen?” “Sixty francs, as it is you, Monsieur Graff. And you can leave them with us if you like.” “Certainly. It would be too much trouble to carry them all off.” “What you leave us we will give to the Sainte-Enfance institution. After you have finished, if there is anything which remains one of our friends has promised to buy it up.” “Who is she?” “Mademoiselle Marianne Lichtenbach.” Graff started. His face changed expression, and he said— “The daughter of—” As he took a step backwards he heard a gentle voice say— “On the ground of charity there are no enemies, only competitors as to who shall do the most good.” “You are quite right, mademoiselle,” replied the old man, with a bow. “And I will immediately put your precept into practice.” Leaning towards the nun, he asked calmly— “How much for the contents of the stall?” “My dear sir,” stammered Madame Sainte-Alix, astonished. “Is two thousand francs enough?” “Oh, that’s nothing! I will give four thousand!” And Count Cesare Agostini, smiling and elegant, appeared by the side of Mademoiselle Lichtenbach. “Our father has sent me to you, mademoiselle,” he said, with a bow. “He will be here in a moment, and, really, he would not have tolerated that _any_ one should rob you of the honour of your generosity at so moderate a price.”