revolution, none bad suffered more deeply than
the Baronne de Kergolay. She was almost a
martyr. She had sat upon the steps of the
scaffold. She had been in the tumbril. Her
hair had fallen beneath Sanson's shears. Her
husband, her father, her dearest friends and
kinsmen, had been drowned in Robespierre's red
sea. She said once, in sad playfulness, that she
felt almost as though she had been decapitated,
and her head had been sewn on again.

The entertainments in the Marais were not
costly. Vieux Sablons, in connexion with the
yellow wax candles in the silver sconces,
provided all that was requisite in the way of style.
For the rest, there was a little weak tea. The
guests brought their own snuff, and what more
could they want? They paid their little compliments,
vented their meek complaints against the
ungrateful government of the cadet branch,
buzzed about their small scandals, and sometimes
indulged in raillery, or drifted into dispute. Now
and then a game at tric-trac or Boston was made
up; and at ten o'clock all took their leave, and
the establishment on the third floor went to
bed,

CHAPTER XXXII. A SCAPEGRACE.

SAID Vieux Sablons to Lily Floris, one morning
—it was in the sixth month of her residence
in the Marais:

"Little m'amselle, today there is
'bombance.'"

"I don't quite understand you, Vieux Sablons.
Bombance! What is that?"

"True, I am an animal. Madame would pull
my ears for talking to you in so rude a manner.
Madame always speaks classically, and expects
her domestics to observe good style in their
language. I mean, that today there is a festival,
a holiday, a gala."

"And why, Vieux Sablons? It is not a fête-day
of your Church."

"Little puritan m'amselle! What do you
know about our feasts or our fasts either?
Though, for the matter of that, you insist upon
making meagre whenever Madame does. But
today is a secular holiday. The Scapegrace is
coming."

"The Scapegrace! Who may he be?"

"Ah! you will find out soon enough. The
scamp—the brigand—the ne'er-do-well—the
good-for-nothing."

Lily turned hot and faint. Who was coming?
She recalled the horrible story of Babette's
husband. Was the convict expected?

"There!" exclaimed Vieux Sablons, good
humouredly, as he observed the girl's agitation;
"I am a brute, a buffalo, a rhinoceros, to terrify
you so, little m'amselle. One would think I
was announcing the advent of Le petit homme
Rouge—the little Red Man who was wont to
appear to Bonaparte. It is only M. Edgar
Greyfaunt, Madame's graceless grand-nephew,
who is coming."

"A-a-h!" murmured Lily; and it was a
long-drawn "a-a-h."

"Don't be frightened. He will treat you as
a child. Monsieur can only spare time for the
grand dames of the Faubourg St. Germain.
Monsieur even disdains to break the hearts of
the grisettes in the Latin Quarter. Oh,
Monsieur is very tenacious of his nobility."

"He is noble, then?"

"Is he not Madame's grand-nephew? Does
she not come of an ancient and illustrious stock?
But he has none of the Kergolay blood in him.
He has nothing to do with the old manor of
Vieux Sablons; and, between you and me, little
m'amselle, I don't think much of his nobility,
for——"

"What, Vieux Sablons?"

The old man had come, suddenly, to a stop.
He resumed, now, in some confusion: "What
an imbecile I am! My tongue is always running
away with me. I was going to say that I
mistrusted his nobility because he is an Englishman.
I cannot endure them, those sons of Albion.
Why has he not a 'De' before his name?
Monsieur Edgar Greyfaunt! That sounds neither
more nor less than the name of a bourgeois.
But I forgot, beast that I am, that Madame herself
was of Britannic origin, and that everything
belonging to her, even in the remotest degree,
must be noble."

"And I, too, am English, Vieux Sablons,"
remarked Lily, sadly.

"But you are not noble," returned the old
man, simply.

"I don't know. I am Quite Alone."

"It is not your fault, little m'amselle. An
enfant trouvé may be the descendant of Henri
Quatre. But we were speaking of M. Edgar.
The prodigal grand-nephew has condescended
to announce his intention of paying us a visit.
It is six months since Monsieur deigned to set
his foot beneath our humble roof."

"Why does he stay away so long?"

"Why indeed. He professes to be very fond
of his aunt. He can come often enough when
he wants a billet of five hundred francs. But
Monsieur has been away sketching, forsooth,
and visiting the grand seigneurs and the grand
dames at their châteaux. He despises the poor
broken-down aristocracy of the Restoration.
Nothing will suit him but the mushroom barons
of Philippe, the newly-fledged peers of France,
the marshals who, the day before yesterday, were
drummer-boys. He visits the corps diplomatique.
He is hand-in-glove witli the Bourse. He is a
favourite with bankers' wives. Oh, Monsieur is a
man of fashion, the pet of Frascati's and the Café
Anglais. Et tout ça n'est qu'un peintre. He
is only a painter with a half-furnished atelier in
the Rue Neuve des Augustins, and if it were not
for the goodness of Madame, his grand-aunt, he
would starve."

"Vieux Sablons," interposed Lily, gravely,
"you are talking scandal. If Madame heard
you, she would be very angry."