and the humming concert of myriads of flies-blue, yellow, and reddishbrownwhich sported amid the sweets, excited her beyond self-control.  Stopping here and there to pluck a flower, she would turn and cry, “Pardon, Monsieur;” until, at length, on an apple-tree growing near the path she descried on a low branch a green apple, no larger than her finger.  This temptation proved irresistible, and with one spring into the midst of the corn, she essayed to reach the prize, if Providence would permit.  Madame de Tecle, however, would not permit.  She seemed much displeased, and said, sharply: 

“Marie, my child!  In the midst of the corn!  Are you crazy!”

The child returned promptly to the path, but unable to conquer her wish for the apple, turned an imploring eye to Camors and said, softly:  “Pardon, Monsieur, but that apple would make my bouquet complete.”

Camors had only to reach up, stretch out his hand, and detach the branch from the tree.

“A thousand thanks!” cried the child, and adding this crowning glory to her bouquet, she placed the whole inside the ribbon around her hat and walked on with an air of proud satisfaction.

As they approached the fence running across the end of the field, Madame de Tecle suddenly said:  “My uncle, Monsieur;” and Camors, raising his head, saw a very tall man looking at them over the fence and shading his eyes with his hand.  His robust limbs were clad in gaiters of yellow leather with steel buttons, and he wore a loose coat of maroon velvet and a soft felt hat.  Camors immediately recognized the white hair and heavy black eyebrows as the same he had seen bending over the violin the night before.

“Uncle,” said Madame de Tecle, introducing the young Count by a wave of the hand:  “This is Monsieur de Camors.”

“Monsieur de Camors,” repeated the old man, in a deep and sonorous voice, “you are most welcome;” and opening the gate he gave his guest a soft, brown hand, as he continued:  “I knew your mother intimately, and am charmed to have her son under my roof.  Your mother was a most amiable person, Monsieur, and certainly merited—­” The old man hesitated, and finished his sentence by a sonorous “Hem!” that resounded and rumbled in his chest as if in the vault of a church.

Then he took the letter Camors handed to him, held it a long distance from his eyes, and began reading it.  The General had told the Count it would be impolite to break suddenly to M. des Rameures the plan they had concocted.  The latter, therefore, found the note only a very warm introduction of Camors.  The postscript gave him the announcement of the marriage.

“The devil!” he cried.  “Did you know this, Elise?  Campvallon is to be married!”

All women, widows, matrons, or maids, are deeply interested in matters pertaining to marriage.

“What, uncle!  The General!  Can it be?  Are you sure?”

“Um—­rather.  He writes the news himself.  Do you know the lady, Monsieur le Comte?”