"He surely will never be so imprudent as to rivet his chain by such a
link!"

"It is impossible to compute the dice in those despotic countries," she
rejoined,--which was pretty well, considering the freedom enjoyed by
France at that period.

"It may be," I suggested, "that the Baron hopes to open this delicate
subject with you himself, Madame."

"It is unlikely," she said, sighing. "And for Delphine, should I tell
her his Excellency preferred scarlet, she would infallibly wear blue.
Imagine her, Monsieur, in fine scarlet, with a scarf of gold gauze, and
rustling grasses in that unruly gold hair of hers! She would be divine!"

The maternal instinct as we have it here at Paris confounds me. I do
not comprehend it. Here was a mother who did not particularly love her
child, who would not be inconsolable at her loss, would not ruin her own
complexion by care of her during illness, would send her through fire
and water and every torture to secure or maintain a desirable rank, who
yet would entangle herself deeply in intrigue, would not hesitate to
tarnish her own reputation, and would, in fact, raise heaven and earth
to--endow this child with a brilliant match. And Mme. de St. Cyr seemed
to regard Delphine, still further, as a cool matter of Art.

These little confidences, moreover, are provoking. They put you yourself
so entirely out of the question.

"Mlle. de St. Cyr's beauty is peerless," I said, slightly chagrined, and