"Pray for me, hein, Marcélite?"
"And don't forget me, Marcélite!"
"Here, this is for good luck!" And with signs of the cross and exhortation they went downstairs into—not the parlors, that was not what frightened them, but the future, the illimitable future, that for which all their previous life had been a preface. One step more, it would be the present, and their childhood would be over.
From the time her carriage left her door, Madame Montyon had talked incessantly to her son, a handsome young man with a listless face, who was carefully seated in an opposite corner, out of the way of the never-an-instant-to-be-forgotten new velvet gown. What she intended to do, what she intended to say, what her listeners intended to do and say,—nay, what they intended to think! Always speaking and thinking consonant to her disposition, she evidently intended to carry her business to the ball, and had laid out her plans in consequence of some recent interview with her agent.
"I told Goupilleau, 'Goupilleau, nonsense! You don't know whom you are talking to! Can't get money out of this people! bah! Giving
