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And all my entreaties had been unavailing: the separation was unavoidable. Now, however, Marcelle sprang forward to meet him, and led him triumphantly across the room, to begin a re-examination of its treasures. My father listened to all, replied to all, and smiled at all. He lent himself to our dreams of happiness, pausing before each new phase, to point out a hope overlooked before, or a joy forgotten. While thus pleasantly occupied, time slipped away unnoticed, until Marcelle’s aunt arrived.

Who was there in our native town who did not know Aunt Roubert? The very mention of her name was sufficient to make one gay. Left a widow in early life, and in involved circumstances, she had, by dint of activity, order, and economy, entirely extricated herself from pecuniary difficulty. Of her might be said with truth, that “sa part d’esprit lui avait été donnee en bon sens.” Taking reality for her guide, she had followed in the beaten track of life, carefully avoiding the many sharp flints which caprice scatters in the way. Always on the move, alternately setting people to rights, and grumbling at either them or herself, she yet found time to manage well her own affairs, and to improve those of others–a faculty which had obtained for her the name of “La Femme de menage de la Providence.” Vulgar in appearance, she was practical in the extreme, and results generally proved her in the right. Her nature was made up of the prose of life, but prose so clear, so consistent, that, but for its simplicity, it would have been profound.

Aunt Roubert arrived, according to custom, a large umbrella in hand, while her arm was loaded with an immense horsehair bag. She entered the little cabinet, where we were seated, like a shower of hail:–“Here you are at last,” she exclaimed, “I have been into every room, in search of you, Do you know, my dear, that the chests of linen have arrived?”

“Very well, I will go and see after it,” said Marcelle, who, with one hand in my father’s, and the other in mine, seemed in no hurry to stir.

“You will go and see after it,” repeated Aunt Roubert, “that will be very useless, for you will find no place to put it in; I have been over your abode, my poor child, and instead of a home I find a ‘salon de theatre.'”

“Why, aunt,” exclaimed Marcelle, “how can you say so? Remi and his father have just been through the rooms, and are delighted with them!”

“Don’t talk of men and housekeeping in the same breath,” replied Madame, in her most peremptory tone; “see that they are provided with a pair of snuffers and a bootjack, and they will not discover the want of anything else; but I, dear friend, know what a house should be. In entering the lobby just now, I looked about for a hook, on which to hang my cloak, and could find nothing, but flowering stocks! My dear, flowers form the principal part of your furniture!”

Marcelle endeavoured to protest against the assertion by enumerating our stock of valuables, but she was interrupted by her aunt.

“I am not talking of what you have, but of what you have not,” she said; “I certainly saw in your salon some little bronze marmozettes.”

“Marmozettes!” I cried, “you mean statuettes of Schiller and Rousseau.”

“Possibly,” Aunt Roubert quietly replied, “they may at a push serve as match holders; but, dear friend, in the fire-place of your office below, I could see neither tongs nor shovel. On opening the sideboard, I found a charming little silver-gilt service, but no soup ladle, so one can only suppose that you mean to live on sweetmeats; and lastly, though the ‘salle à manger is ornamented with beautifully gilt porcelain, the kitchen unfortunately is minus both roasting-jack and frying-pan! Good heavens, these are most unromantic details, are they not?” added she, noticing the gesture of annoyance which we were unable altogether to repress; “but as you will be obliged to descend to them whenever you want a roast or an omelette, it would perhaps be as well to provide for them.”