* * * * *

So Jacques Guyon came, came in his carriage, with two servants riding on
horseback in front and another riding on horseback behind. Jeanne Marie
sat on the floor, tailor fashion, up in her little room of the old stone
house, and peeked out of the diamond-paned gable-window very cautiously;
and she was sorely disappointed.

In some of her dreams (and these dreams she thought were very bad), she
had pictured a lover coming alone on a foam-flecked charger; and as the
steed paused, the rider leaped lightly from saddle to ground, kissing his
hand to her as she peeked through the curtains. For he discovered her when
she hoped he would not, but she did not care much if he did.

But Monsieur Guyon's eyes did not search the windows. He got out of the
carriage with difficulty, and his breath came wheezy and short as he
mounted the steps. His complexion was dusty blue, his nose tinged with
carmine, his eyes watery, and his girth aldermanic. He was growing old,
and, saddest of all, he was growing old rebelliously and therefore
ungracefully--dyeing his whiskers purple.

That evening when Jeanne Marie was introduced to Monsieur Guyon at dinner
she found him very polite and very gracious. His breeches were real black
velvet and his stockings were silk, and the buckles on his shoes were
polished silver and the frill of his shirt was finest lace. His
conversation was directed mostly to Jeanne's father, so Jeanne did not
feel nearly so uncomfortable as she had expected.

The next day a notary came, and long papers were written out, and red and
green seals placed on them, and then everybody held up his right hand as