Monsieur Goupilleau possessed the very Supreme Court of the Duel, the very infallibility of the code of honor,—a tall, thin, sallow young man, behind whose fierce black moustaches were no front teeth whatever.
"Ah," thought the notary, after the first glance, "Théodule is silent; Théodule is mysterious; Théodule has on his black coat and white cravat,—a duel, sure!"
The old lady had laid her head on the table. Her vigor had snapped. "My money! my money!" and the retort, "My own mother,"—that was all she could hear from the buzzing in her ears. What she saw? All she could see; what, as a soldier's daughter, she should have better borne. When she raised her face, on the notary's return, her eyes—her little, strong, bold, brigadier eyes—were weeping.
"Madame!" It was the sympathy in Monsieur Goupilleau's voice that prepared her for the worst. "Madame, words spoken last night, no doubt in an unguarded moment, insults passed, taxing with dishonor honorable personages,—under the circumstances, Madame, nothing is to be done." He shrugged his shoul-
