"Well, but," said Rose, "if he is all that, he will not sympathize with
us, who have so mismanaged Beaurepaire. Will he not despise us?"

Edouard was a little staggered, but Aubertin came to his aid.

"Permit me, Josephine," said he. "Natural history steps in here, and
teaches by me, its mouth-piece. A misanthrope hates all mankind, but is
kind to every individual, generally too kind. A philanthrope loves the
whole human race, but dislikes his wife, his mother, his brother, and
his friends and acquaintances. Misanthrope is the potato: rough and
repulsive outside, but good to the core. Philanthrope is a peach: his
manner all velvet and bloom, his words sweet juice, his heart of hearts
a stone. Let me read Philanthrope's book, and fall into the hands of
Misanthrope."

Edouard admitted the shrewdness of this remark.

"And so," said he, "my misanthrope will say plenty of biting
words,--which, by-the-by, will not hurt you, who will not hear them,
only me,--and then he'll lend us the money, and Beaurepaire will be
free, and I shall have had a hand in it. Hurrah!"

Then came a delicious hour to Edouard Riviere. Young and old poured out
their glowing thanks and praises upon him till his checks burned like
fire.

The baroness was especially grateful, and expressed a gentle regret that
she could see no way of showing her gratitude except in words. "What can
we do for this little angel?" said she, turning to Josephine.