"what does he want? Does he want to marry me?"
My father stared a moment. "Pardieu!" he cried.
"She looks as if she didn't believe it," said my mother. "Pray, did you ever ask him?"
"No, madam; did you? You are very kind." Mlle. de Bergerac was excited; her cheeks flushed.
"In the course of time," said my father, gravely, "the Vicomte proposes to demand your hand."
"What is he waiting for?" asked Mlle. de Bergerac, simply.
Fi donc, mademoiselle!" cried my mother.
"He is waiting for M. de Sorbières to die," said I, who had got this bit of news from my mother's waiting-woman.
My father stared at me, half angrily; and then,—"He expects to inherit," he said, boldly. "It's a very fine property."
"He would have done better, it seems to me," rejoined Mlle. de Bergerac, after a pause,
