“Ah! that good uncle; how well he does it!” thought Rose-Marie-Victoire.

The Vicomte de Troisville was, to paint him in two words, du Bousquier ennobled.  Between the two men there was precisely the difference which separates the vulgar style from the noble style.  If they had both been present, the most fanatic liberal would not have denied the existence of aristocracy.  The viscount’s strength had all the distinction of elegance; his figure had preserved its magnificent dignity.  He had blue eyes, black hair, an olive skin, and looked to be about forty-six years of age.  You might have thought him a handsome Spaniard preserved in the ice of Russia.  His manner, carriage, and attitude, all denoted a diplomat who had seen Europe.  His dress was that of a well-bred traveller.  As he seemed fatigued, the abbe offered to show him to his room, and was much amazed when his niece threw open the door of the boudoir, transformed into a bedroom.

Mademoiselle Cormon and her uncle then left the noble stranger to attend to his own affairs, aided by Jacquelin, who brought up his luggage, and went themselves to walk beside the river until their guest had made his toilet.  Although the Abbe de Sponde chanced to be even more absent-minded than usual, Mademoiselle Cormon was not less preoccupied.  They both walked on in silence.  The old maid had never before met any man as seductive as this Olympean viscount.  She might have said to herself, as the Germans do, “This is my ideal!” instead of which she felt herself bound from head to foot, and could only say, “Here’s my affair!” Then she flew to Mariette to know if the dinner could be put back a while without loss of excellence.

“Uncle, your Monsieur de Troisville is very amiable,” she said, on returning.

“Why, niece, he hasn’t as yet said a word.”

“But you can see it in his ways, his manners, his face.  Is he a bachelor?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied the abbe, who was thinking of a discussion on mercy, lately begun between the Abbe Couturier and himself.  “Monsieur de Troisville wrote me that he wanted to buy a house here.  If he was married, he wouldn’t come alone on such an errand,” added the abbe, carelessly, not conceiving the idea that his niece could be thinking of marriage.

“Is he rich?”

“He is a younger son of the younger branch,” replied her uncle.  “His grandfather commanded a squadron, but the father of this young man made a bad marriage.”

“Young man!” exclaimed the old maid.  “It seems to me, uncle, that he must be at least forty-five.”  She felt the strongest desire to put their years on a par.

“Yes,” said the abbe; “but to a poor priest of seventy, Rose, a man of forty seems a youth.”

All Alencon knew by this time that Monsieur de Troisville had arrived at the Cormons.  The traveller soon rejoined his hosts, and began to admire the Brillante, the garden, and the house.