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shall not though,” said Edouard.

      “I am not so sure of that. Now then.”

      “Now then, what?”

      “Begin.”

      “Begin what?”

      “Amusing me.” And she made herself look sullen and unamusable all over.

      “I will try,” said Riviere. “I’ll tell you what they say of you: that you are too young to love.”

      “So I am, much.”

      “No, no, no! I made a mistake. I mean too young to be loved.”

      “Oh, I am not too young for that, not a bit.”

      This point settled, she suggested that, if he could not amuse her, he had better do THE NEXT BEST THING, and that was, talk sense.

      “I think I had better not talk at all,” said he, “for I am no match for such a nimble tongue. And then you are so remorseless. I’ll hold my tongue, and make a sketch of this magnificent oak.”

      “Ay, do: draw it as it appeared on a late occasion: with two ladies flying out of it, and you rooted with dismay.”

      “There is no need; that scene is engraved.”

      “Where? in all the shops?”

      “No; on all our memories.”

      “Not on mine; not on mine. How terrified you were—ha, ha! and how terrified we should have been if you had not. Listen: once upon a time—don’t be alarmed: it was long after Noah—a frightened hare ran by a pond; the frogs splashed in the water, smit with awe. Then she said, ‘Ah ha! there are people in the world I frighten in my turn; I am the thunderbolt of war.’ Excuse my quoting La Fontaine: I am not in ‘Charles the Twelfth of Sweden’ yet. I am but a child.”

      “And it’s a great mercy, for when you grow up, you will be too much for me, that is evident. Come, then, Mademoiselle the Quizzer, come and adorn my sketch.”

      “Monsieur, shall I make you a confession? You will not be angry: I could not support your displeasure. I have a strange inclination to walk up and down this terrace while you go and draw that tree in the Pleasaunce.”

      “Resist that inclination; perhaps it will fly from you.”

      “No; you fly from me, and draw. I will rejoin you in a few minutes.”

      “Thank you, I’m not so stupid. You will step indoors directly.”

      “Do you doubt my word, sir?” asked she haughtily.

      He had learned to obey all her caprices; so he went and placed himself on the west side of the oak and took out his sketch-book, and worked zealously and rapidly. He had done the outlines of the tree and was finishing in detail a part of the huge trunk, when his eyes were suddenly dazzled: in the middle of the rugged bark, deformed here and there with great wart-like bosses, and wrinkled, seamed, and ploughed all over with age, burst a bit of variegated color; bright as a poppy on a dungeon wall, it glowed and glittered out through a large hole in the brown bark; it was Rose’s face peeping. To our young lover’s eye how divine it shone! None of the half tints of common flesh were there, but a thing all rose, lily, sapphire, and soul. His pencil dropped, his mouth opened, he was downright dazzled by the glowing, bewitching face, sparkling with fun, in the gaunt tree. Tell me, ladies, did she know, even at that age, the value of that sombre frame to her brightness? The moment she found herself detected, the gaunt old tree rang musical with a crystal laugh, and out came the arch-dryad. “I have been there all the time. How solemn you looked! Now for the result of such profound study.” He showed her his work; she altered her tone. “Oh, how clever!” she cried, “and how rapid! What a facility you have! Monsieur is an artist,” said she gravely; “I will be more respectful,” and she dropped him a low courtesy. “Mind you promised it me,” she added sharply.

      “You will accept it, then?”

      “That I will, now it is worth having: dear me, I never reckoned on that. Finish it directly,” cried this peremptory young person.

      “First I must trouble you to stand out there near the tree.”

      “Me? what for?”

      “Because art loves contrasts. The tree is a picture of age and gradual decay; by its side then I must place a personification of youth and growing loveliness.”

      She did not answer, but made a sort of defiant pirouette, and went where she was bid, and stood there with her back to the artist. “That will never do,” said he; “you really must be so good as to turn round.”

      “Oh, very well.” And when she came round, behold her color had risen mightily. Flattery is sweet.

      This child of nature was delighted, and ashamed it should be seen that she was.

      And so he drew her, and kept looking off the paper at her, and had a right in his character of artist to look her full in the face; and he did so with long lingering glances. To be sure, they all began severe and businesslike with half-closed eyes, and the peculiar hostile expression art puts on; but then they always ended open-eyed, and so full and tender, that she, poor girl, who was all real gold, though sham brass, blushed and blushed, and did not know which way to look not to be scorched up by his eye like a tender flower, or blandly absorbed like the pearly dew. Ah, happy hour! ah, happy days of youth and innocence and first love!

      Trouble loves to intrude on these halcyon days.

      The usually quiet Josephine came flying from the house, pale and agitated, and clung despairingly to Rose, and then fell to sobbing and lamenting piteously.

      I shall take leave to relate in my own words what had just occurred to agitate her so. When she entered her mother’s room, she found the baroness and Perrin the notary seated watching for her. She sat down after the usual civilities, and Perrin entered upon the subject that had brought him.

      He began by confessing to them that he had not overcome the refractory creditor without much trouble; and that he had since learned there was another, a larger creditor, likely to press for payment or for sale of the estate. The baroness was greatly troubled by this communication: the notary remained cool as a cucumber, and keenly observant. After a pause he went on to say all this had caused him grave reflections. “It seems,” said he with cool candor, “a sad pity the estate should pass from a family that has held it since the days of Charlemagne.”

      “Now God forbid!” cried the baroness, lifting her eyes and her quivering hands to heaven.

      The notary held the republican creed in all its branches. “Providence, madame, does not interfere—in matters of business,” said he. “Nothing but money can save the estate. Let us then be practical. Has any means occurred to you of raising money to pay off these incumbrances?”

      “No. What means can there be? The estate is mortgaged to its full value: so they say, at least.”

      “And they say true,” put in the notary quickly. “But do not distress yourself, madame: confide in me.”

      “Ah, my good friend, may Heaven reward you.”

      “Madame, up to the present time I have no complaint to make of Heaven. I am on the rise: here, mademoiselle, is a gimcrack they have given me;” and he unbuttoned his overcoat, and showed them a piece of tricolored ribbon and a clasp. “As for me, I look to ‘the solid;’ I care little for these things,” said he, swelling visibly, “but the world is dazzled by them. However, I can show you something better.” He took out a letter. “This is from the Minister of the Interior to a client of mine: a promise I shall be the next prefect; and the present prefect—I am happy to say—is on his death-bed. Thus, madame, your humble servant in a few short months will be notary no longer, but prefect; I shall then sell my office of notary: and I flatter myself when I am a prefect you will not blush to own me.”

      “Then,

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