Such was the stress within.  Then there was the storm without.  The Grandissimes were in a high state of excitement.  The news had reached them all that Honore had met the question of titles by selling one of their largest estates.  It was received with wincing frowns, indrawn breath, and lifted feet, but without protest, and presently with a smile of returning confidence.

“Honore knew; Honore was informed; they had all authorized Honore; and Honore, though he might have his odd ways and notions, picked up during that unfortunate stay abroad, might safely be trusted to stand by the interests of his people.”

After the first shock some of them even raised a laugh: 

“Ha, ha, ha!  Honore would show those Yankees!”

They went to his counting-room and elsewhere, in search of him, to smite their hands into the hands of their far-seeing young champion.  But, as we have seen, they did not find him; none dreamed of looking for him in an enemy’s camp (19 Bienville) or on the lonely suburban commons, talking to himself in the ghostly twilight; and the next morning, while Aurora and Clotilde were seated before him in his private office, looking first at the face and then at the back of two mighty drafts of equal amount on Philadelphia, the cry of treason flew forth to these astounded Grandissimes, followed by the word that the sacred fire was gone out in the Grandissime temple (counting-room), that Delilahs in duplicate were carrying off the holy treasures, and that the uncircumcised and unclean—­even an f.m.c.—­was about to be inducted into the Grandissime priesthood.

Aurora and Clotilde were still there, when the various members of the family began to arrive and display their outlines in impatient shadow-play upon the glass door of the private office; now one, and now another, dallied with the doorknob and by and by obtruded their lifted hats and urgent, anxious faces half into the apartment; but Honore would only glance toward them, and with a smile equally courteous, authoritative and fleeting, say: 

“Good-morning, Camille” (or Charlie—­or Agamemnon, as the case might be); “I will see you later; let me trouble you to close the door.”

To add yet another strain, the two ladies, like frightened, rescued children, would cling to their deliverer.  They wished him to become the custodian and investor of their wealth.  Ah, woman! who is a tempter like thee?  But Honore said no, and showed them the danger of such a course.

“Suppose I should die suddenly.  You might have trouble with my executors.”

The two beauties assented pensively; but in Aurora’s bosom a great throb secretly responded that as for her, in that case, she should have no use for money—­in a nunnery.

“Would not Monsieur at least consent to be their financial adviser?”

He hemmed, commenced a sentence twice, and finally said: 

“You will need an agent; some one to take full charge of your affairs; some person on whose sagacity and integrity you can place the fullest dependence.”