A flush tinged the cheek of Camors as he answered, quietly, “You are really too good.”

They walked a moment in silence over the gravel path bordered by grass, before Lescande spoke again.

“And yourself, dear friend, I hope that you also are happy.”

“I—­happy!” Camors seemed a little astonished.  “My happiness is simple enough, but I believe it is unclouded.  I rise in the morning, ride to the Bois, thence to the club, go to the Bois again, and then back to the club.  If there is a first representation at any theatre, I wish to see it.  Thus, last evening they gave a new piece which was really exquisite.  There was a song in it, beginning: 

’He was a woodpecker,
A little woodpecker,
A young woodpecker—­’

and the chorus imitated the cry of the woodpecker!  Well, it was charming, and the whole of Paris will sing that song with delight for a year.  I also shall do like the whole of Paris, and I shall be happy.”

“Good heavens! my friend,” laughed Lescande, “and that suffices you for happiness?”

“That and—­the principles of ’eighty-nine,” replied Camors, lighting a fresh cigar from the old one.

Here their dialogue was broken by the fresh voice of a woman calling from the blinds of the balcony—­

“Is that you, Theodore?”

Camors raised his eyes and saw a white hand, resting on the slats of the blind, bathed in sunlight.

“That is my wife.  Conceal yourself!” cried Lescande, briskly; and he pushed Camors behind a clump of catalpas, as he turned to the balcony and lightly answered: 

“Yes, my dear; do you wish anything?”

“Maxime is with you?”

“Yes, mother.  I am here,” cried the child.  “It is a beautiful morning.  Are you quite well?”

“I hardly know.  I have slept too long, I believe.”  She opened the shutters, and, shading her eyes from the glare with her hand, appeared on the balcony.

She was in the flower of youth, slight, supple, and graceful, and appeared, in her ample morning-gown of blue cashmere, plumper and taller than she really was.  Bands of the same color interlaced, in the Greek fashion, her chestnut hair—­which nature, art, and the night had dishevelled—­waved and curled to admiration on her small head.

She rested her elbows on the railing, yawned, showing her white teeth, and looking at her husband, asked: 

“Why do you look so stupid?”

At the instant she observed Camors—­whom the interest of the moment had withdrawn from his concealment—­gave a startled cry, gathered up her skirts, and retired within the room.

Since leaving college up to this hour, Louis de Camors had never formed any great opinion of the Juliet who had taken Lescande as her Romeo.  He experienced a flash of agreeable surprise on discovering that his friend was more happy in that respect than he had supposed.

“I am about to be scolded, my friend,” said Lescande, with a hearty laugh, “and you also must stay for your share.  You will stay and breakfast with us?”