idated set of old nobles, one having
lost a nose, another an arm, others again sections of their faces. One
of them--a chevalier of St. Louis--had received a bayonet thrust through
the centre in the riotous times of the Revolution; but he still smiled
at Camors, and sniffed at a flower, despite the daylight shining through
him.

Camors finished his inspection, thinking to himself they were a highly
respectable set of ancestors, but not worth fifteen francs apiece. The
housekeeper had passed half the previous night in slaughtering various
dwellers in the poultry-yard; and the results of the sacrifice now
successively appeared, swimming in butter. Happily, however, the
fatherly kindness of the General had despatched a hamper of provisions
from Campvallon, and a few slices of pate, accompanied by sundry glasses
of Chateau-Yquem helped the Count to combat the dreary sadness with
which his change of residence, solitude, the night, and the smoke of his
candles, all conspired to oppress him.

Regaining his usual good spirits, which had deserted him for a moment,
he tried to draw out the old steward, who was waiting on him. He strove
to glean from him some information of the Des Rameures; but the old
servant, like every Norman peasant, held it as a tenet of faith that he
who gave a plain answer to any question was a dishonored man. With all
possible respect he let Camors understand plainly that he was not to be
deceived by his affected ignorance into any belief that M. le Comte
did not know a great deal better than he who and what M. des Rameures
was--where he lived, and what he did; that M. le Comte was his master,
and as such was entitled to his respect, but that he was nevertheless a
Parisian, and--as M. des Rameures said--all Parisians were jesters.

Camors, who had taken an oath never to get angry, kept it now; drew from
the General's old cognac a fresh supply of patience, lighted a cigar,
and left the room.

For a few moments he leaned over the balustrade of the terrace and
looked around. The night, clear and beautiful, enveloped in its shadowy
veil the widestretching fields, and a solemn stillness, strange to
Parisian ears, reigned around him, broken only at intervals by the
distant bay of a hound, rising suddenly, and dying into peace again. His
eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, Camors descended the terrace
stairs and passed into the old avenue, which was darker and more solemn
than a cathedral-aisle at midn