nificent, complimentary Madame Montyon had also her share in his self-satisfaction. Through his dreams ran the appointment to meet her the next day in the notary's office, and he sought in his mind all possibly useful information with which to confuse the plausible Philippe Deron.
Madame Montyon, whose fatigues blurred the enjoyable retrospect of her evening's business, felt only a sleepy triumph. The imported white maid missed her usual scolding, as she removed the panache of feathers and velvet train,—with professional tenderness and solicitude for them, professional indifference to their wearer.
To Madame Odile Maziel, instead of slumber came a vigil filled with the recollection of an evening of mortification and ennui, dominated by the prophecies she had defied at her marriage, which came now to brood over her future like sluggish crows.
Young Montyon, in his feelings an old Montyon, looked through a veil of cigar-smoke at the old raving Nourrice and the adjacent childish remembrances her presence evoked; at his native city, and the people whom his step-mother and father had abandoned in time of crisis; at the
