'What a wonderful trait of instinct!' cried Fresneau, beginning once more to disfigure his exercises with cabalistic signs. 'I will make a note of it for my class.' The poor man, a real Jack-of-all-trades in his profession, taught philosophy in a preparatory school for B.A.'s, Latin in another, history in another, and even English, which he could scarcely pronounce. In this way he had contracted the habit, peculiar to old schoolmen, of holding forth at length at every possible opportunity. This marvellous return of Cendrillon to her native hearth was a text to be elaborated ad infinitum. He went on telling anecdote after anecdote, and forgetting his exercises—to all appearances. The excellent man, so weak that he had never been able to keep a class of ten boys in order, was a marvel of observation where his wife was concerned. Whilst his pencil was running over the margins of the sheets of foolscap he had distinctly perceived Madame Offarel's hostility. From Emilie's tone of voice, too, it was clear to him that she was somewhat uneasy as to the turn that such a conversation might take. So the professor prolonged his monologue in order to give the nerves of the sour-tempered bourgeoise time to steady themselves. He was not called upon to play his part long, for there came another ring at the bell.

'That's papa!' exclaimed Rosalie; 'it must be a quarter to ten.' She, too, had suffered from her mother's show of temper towards Claude and René, and the arrival of her father, which was the signal for departure, seemed like a deliverance—to her, too, for whom parting from the Fresneaus was generally an ordeal. But she knew her mother, and felt, by instinct rather than by reasoning, how mean and distasteful the bitterness of her remarks must seem to René. There were only too many reasons why he should no longer care for their company. She therefore rose as her father entered the room. M. Offarel was a tall, withered-looking man, with one of those pinched faces that irresistibly remind one of the immortal type of Don Quixote; an aquiline nose, hollow temples, a harshly drawn mouth, and, to crown all, one of those receding brows the wrinkles and bumps of which represent so many chimerical fancies and false ideas within. To his innocent mania for aquarelles he added the ridiculous weakness of incessantly talking about his imaginary complaints.

'It's very cold to-night,' were his first words, and, addressing his wife, he added, 'Adelaide, have you any tincture of iodine in the house? I am sure I shall have my attack of rheumatism in the morning.'

'Is your cab warmed?' asked Emilie, turning to Claude.

'Oh, yes,' replied the writer, pulling out his watch; 'and I see that it's time to get into it, if we don't want to be late.' Whilst he was taking leave of the little circle René disappeared through the door that led from the dining-room to his bedroom without bidding anyone good night.

'He has probably only gone to get his coat,' thought Rosalie; 'he cannot possibly have gone without saying good-bye, especially as he has not looked at me at all to-night.' She went on with her work whilst Fresneau received the sous-chef de bureau with the same questions he had put to his friend: 'Just a thimbleful to keep the cold out?'

'Only a suspicion,' answered Offarel.

'That's right,' rejoined the professor, 'you are not like Larcher, who despised my eau-de-vie!'

'Monsieur Larcher!' observed the other. 'Don't you know his usual drink? Why'—he added, in a lower key, and prudently looking towards the passage—'I read an article in the paper only this evening that shows him up well.'

'Tell us all about it, petit père,' exclaimed Madame Offarel, dropping her work for the first time that evening, and artlessly allowing her rancorous feelings to betray themselves as openly as her simple affection for her cat.