“There is no need of that, good mother,” said Clotilde.  “The choice has already been made by the mainly interested party, and I am certain that it would not be disagreeable to Julia.”

“Well, then, my darling, everything is for the best.”

“Alas! no.  I am going to tell you something that covers me with confusion.  Among all the men we know, the only one who—­the only one I like, in fact, is also the only one who has never been in love with me.”

“He must be a savage, then! he cannot but be a savage.  But who is he?”

“I have told you, dear mother, the only one of our friends who is not in love with me—­”

“Bah! who is that?  Your cousin Pierre?”

“No, but you are not—­”

“Monsieur de Lucan!” exclaimed the baroness.  “It could not fail to be so!  The very flower of the flock!  Mon Dieu, my darling, how very similar our tastes are, both of us!  He is charming, your Lucan, he is charming.  Kiss me, dear—­don’t look any farther, don’t look any farther; he is positively just the man for us.”

“But, mother, since he does not want me!”

“Good! he does not want you now!  What nonsense! what do you know about it?  Did you ask him?  Besides, it is impossible, my darling; you were made for each other in all eternity.  He is charming, distingue, well-bred, rich, intelligent, everything, in a word—­everything.”

“Everything, mother, except in love with me.”

The baroness exclaiming anew against such a very unlikely thing, Clotilde exposed to her eyes a series of facts and particulars which left no room for illusions.  The dismayed mother was compelled to resign herself to the painful conviction that there really was in the world a man of sufficiently bad taste not to be in love with her daughter, and that this man unfortunately was Monsieur de Lucan.

She returned slowly to her residence, meditating on the way upon that strange mystery the explanation of which, however, she was not long to wait.

CHAPTER II.

TWO FAST FRIENDS.

George-Rene de Lucan was an intimate friend of the Count Pierre de Moras, Clotilde’s cousin.  They had been companions in boyhood, in youth, in travels, and even in battle; for, chance having led them to the United States at the outbreak of the war of the rebellion, they had deemed it a favorable opportunity to receive the baptism of fire.  Their friendship had become still more sternly tempered in the midst of these dangers of warfare sustained fraternally far from their own country.  That friendship had had, moreover, for a long time, a character of rare confidence, delicacy, and strength.  They entertained the highest esteem for each other, and their mutual confidence was not misplaced.  They, however, bore no resemblance whatever to each other.  Pierre de Moras was of tall stature, blonde as a Scandinavian, handsome and strong as a lion, but as a good-natured lion.  Lucan was dark, slender, elegant and grave.  There was in his cold and gentle accent, in his very bearing, a certain grace mingled with authority, that was both imposing and charming.