"Oh! but they are too beautiful, simply too beautiful!" she said.
And the philosopher, half in indignation, half in indulgence, exclaimed, "My poor child, you can not possibly wear such jewels at your age!"
"Ah!" said Esperance with disappointment, "I cannot wear them?"
"You will be able to wear them in a play, at the theatre," said Madame Darbois, but her tone lacked assurance, for she did not know whether that would be possible either.
M. Darbois had turned his attention to the notices, having pushed aside the descriptive paragraphs. He read them and gave them to his wife.
"Your godfather came to complain to us of Maurice, of Jean Perliez, and of yourself. You all displeased him; tell us just what happened?"
Esperance recounted the happenings with perfect impartiality, adding honestly that she had done nothing to try to persuade her godfather to remain. The philosopher smiled.
"Very well, let us forget all that. We will take up our happy life again, that has been interrupted by your triumphs," he added sadly. And then, as the women were preparing to leave the library, "Tell me, Esperance, who is the Countess Styvens?"
"A great lady at court, and oh! so charming."
"Is Count Albert Styvens of the Legation any relation of hers?"
"Yes, father, he is her son. But why do you ask that?"
"Your godfather spoke to me of this young man, who, it seems, wants to complete his studies in philosophy."
The poor little star trembled. She was on the point of confessing all her presentiments, her terrors, to her father.... But he had just sat down to his desk and seemed already indifferent to what was going on around him. She went softly out of the library, following her mother, who was bearing away the newspaper excerpts and the royal jewel cases.
In the beautiful house which Countess Styvens occupied with her son, an animated discussion was taking place at the same moment between Baron von Berger and Count Albert.
"I advise you, my boy," the Baron was saying brusquely, "to ask for another post. You, so sensible, too sensible, for a man of your age, in fact it's a little ridiculous...."
"That has nothing to do with it," returned the younger man coolly.
"All very well, but my quasi-paternal duty is to stop you before certain danger. You admit that you adore this young star of seventeen, the daughter of a philosopher of high standing. You do not intend, I suppose, to make her your mistress?"