He belonged to the race of nobles,
now almost extinct, whose watches stopped in 1789, and who kept time
with the past century.

More attached to his illusions than to his life, the old marquis
insisted upon considering all the stirring events which had happened
since the first revolution as a series of deplorable practical jokes.

Emigrating with the Count d'Artois, he did not return to France until
1815, with the allies.

He should have been thankful to Heaven for the recovery of a portion of
his immense family estates; a comparatively small portion, to be sure,
but full enough to support him comfortably: he said, however, that he
did not think the few paltry acres were worth thanking God for.

At first, he tried every means to obtain an appointment at court; but
seeing all his efforts fail, he resolved to retire to his chateau, which
he did, after cursing and pitying his king, whom he had worshipped.

He soon became accustomed to the free and indolent life of a country
gentleman.

Possessing fifteen thousand francs a year, he spent twenty-five or
thirty thousand, borrowing from every source, saying that a genuine
restoration would soon take place, and that then he would regain
possession of all his properties.

Following his example, his younger son lived extravagantly. Louis was
always in pursuit of adventure, and idled away his time in drinking and
gambling. The elder son, Gaston, anxious to participate in the stirring
events of the time, prepared himself for action by quietly working,
studying, and reading certain papers and pamphlets surreptitiously
received, the very mention of which was considered a hanging matter by
his father.

Altogether the old marquis was the happiest of mortals, living well,
drinking high, hunting much, tolerated by the peasants, and execrated
by the gentlemen of the neighborhood, who regarded him with contempt and
raillery.

Time never hung heavy on his hands, except in mid-summer, when the
valley of the Rhone was intensely hot; and even then he had infallible
means of amusement, always new, though ever the same.

He detested, above all, his neighbor the Countess de la Verberie.

The Countess de la Verberie, the "bete noire" of the marquis, as he
ungallantly termed her, was a tall, dry woman, angular in appearance and
character, cold and arrogant toward her equals, and domineering over her
inferiors.

Like her noble neighbor, she too had emigrated; and her husband was
aft