ne's foibles at his fingers'
ends. The habits of the Prince, the aims of the their ladyships of
Dorset and Buckingham, the extravagance of this noble Duke and that
right honourable gentleman were not hid from him. I answered
discreetly yet frankly, for there was no ill-breeding in his curiosity.
Rather it seemed like the inquiries of some fine lady, now buried deep
in the country, as to the doings of a forsaken Mayfair. There was
humour in it and something of pathos.

"My aunt must be a voluminous correspondent, sir," I said.

He laughed, "I have many friends in England who write to me, but I have
seen none of them for long, and I doubt I may never see them again.
Also in my youth I have been in England." And he sighed as at
sorrowful recollection.

Then he showed the book in his hand. "See," he said, "here is one of
your English writings, the greatest book I have ever happened on." It
was a volume of Mr. Fielding. For a little he talked of books and
poets. He admired Mr. Fielding profoundly, Dr. Smollet somewhat less,
Mr. Richardson not at all. But he was clear that England had a
monopoly of good writers, saving only my friend M. Rousseau, whom he
valued, yet with reservations. Of the Italians he had no opinion. I
instanced against him the plays of Signor Alfieri. He groaned, shook
his head, and grew moody.

"Know you Scotland?" he asked suddenly.

I replied that I had visited Scotch cousins, but had no great
estimation for the country. "It is too poor and jagged," I said, "for
the taste of one who loves colour and sunshine and suave outlines." He
sighed. "It is indeed a bleak land, but a kindly. When the sun shines
at all he shines on the truest hearts in the world. I love its
bleakness too. There is a spirit in the misty hills and the harsh
sea-wind which inspires men to great deeds. Poverty and courage go
often together, and my Scots, if they are poor, are as untamable as
their mountains."

"You know the land, sir?" I asked.

"I have seen it, and I have known many Scots. You will find them in
Paris and Avignon and Rome, with never a plack in their pockets. I
have a feeling for exiles, sir, and I have pitied these poor people.
They gave their all for the cause they followed."

Clearly the Count shared my aunt's views of history--those views which
have made such sport for us often at Carteron. Stalwart Whig as I am,
there was something in the tone of the old gentleman which made me feel