"A handsome girl!" muttered Bobichel.
"She is too haughty to those beneath her," said some one.
"She is made of Paris stuff," said another. "She's not calculated for our village."
A new incident now occurred.
A post-chaise, drawn by vigorous horses, now dashed into the Square, and drew up before Master Schwann's inn.
Before the worthy innkeeper could come down the steps to welcome the new arrival, another person had dashed past him. This was the man, who, sheltered by his newspaper, had so closely watched all that was going on around him.
"Monsieur le Marquis," he said, presenting his arm to the gentleman in the post-chaise, "I see my letter reached you in time."
The new arrival is not unknown to our readers; it was he who, earlier in our tale, was known as the Vicomte de Talizac, and who to-day, by the death of the old Marquis, had been invested with all the titles of the Fongereues family.
Ten years had elapsed since we last saw him, and though hardly forty, he seems an old man—his figure is bent and his stern face covered with wrinkles.
The man who was waiting for him had long been his accomplice; together they had concocted the criminal plan to which Simon fell a victim, and as a reward for his villainy, Cyprien had been made intendant instead of valet.