Mlle. Moiseney had two weaknesses; she was a gormand, and she admired handsome men.  Let us understand the case:  she knew perfectly well that they were not created for her; that she had no attractions to offer them; that they had nothing to give her.  She admired them naively and innocently, as a child might admire a beautiful Epinal engraving; she would willingly have cut out their likenesses to hang on a nail on her wall, and contemplate while rereading “Gonzalve de Cordue” and “Le Dernier des Cavaliers,” her two favourite romances.  At Bergun, during the repast, her brain had been working, and she had made two reflections.  The first was, that the trout of Albula were incomparable, the second that the stranger seated opposite her had a remarkably handsome head, and was altogether a fine-looking man.  Several times, with fork halfway to mouth, and nose in the air, she had forgotten herself in her scrutiny of him.

Antoinette, rather weary, had retired early to her chamber.  Mlle. Moiseney repaired thither to see if she needed anything, and, as she was about leaving her for the night, candle in hand, she suddenly inquired, “Do not you think, as I do, that this stranger is a remarkable-looking person?”

“Of whom do you speak?” rejoined Antoinette.

“Why, of the traveller who sat opposite me.”

“I confess that I scarcely looked at him.”

“Indeed!  He has superb eyes, nearly green, with fawn-coloured tinting.”

“Most astonishing!  And his hair, is it green also?”

“Chestnut brown, almost hazel.”

“Pray be more exact; is it hazel or not?”

“You need not laugh at me—­his whole appearance is striking, his figure singular, but full of character, full of expression, and as handsome as singular.”

“What enthusiasm!  It seemed to me, so far as I noticed, that he was inclined to stoop, and that his head was very badly poised.”

“What do you say?” cried Mlle. Moiseney, greatly scandalized.  “How came you to think his head badly poised?”

“There—­there!  Don’t let us quarrel about it; I am ready to retract.  Good-night, mademoiselle.  Apropos, did you know that M. Camille Langis had returned to Paris?”

“I did not know it, but I am not surprised.  I had surmised it; in fact, I was quite sure that he would be back about this time, perfectly sure.  And, of course, you think he has returned with the intention—­”

“I think,” interrupted Antoinette, “that it costs me more to pain M. Langis than any other man in the world.  I think, also, that he possesses most tiresome fidelity; it is always the way, one never loses one’s dog when one wants to lose him; and I think, moreover, that a woman makes a poor bargain when she marries a man for whom she feels friendship; for, if she gains a husband, she is very sure to lose a friend.”

“How true your words are!” exclaimed Mlle. Moiseney.  “But you are always right.  Has M. Langis forgotten that you thought him too young—­only twenty-three?”