these books when the Vicomte entered, after
knocking at the door. He referred to this courteous precaution by a
little gesture indicating the panel upon which his knuckle had
sounded.

"You see," he said, "this room is yours. Let us begin as we intend to
go on."

If I was a queer secretary, here at all events was an uncommon master.

We fell to work at once, and one or two questions requiring immediate
investigation came under discussion. I told him my opinion of his
stewards; for I hated to see an old man so cheated. I lived, it will
be remembered, in a glass house, and naturally was forever reaching my
hand towards a stone. The Vicomte laughed in his kindly way at what he
was pleased to term my high-handedness.

"Mon Dieu!" he cried; "what a grasp of steel. But they will be
surprised--the bourgeois. I have always been so tolerant. I have ruled
by kindness."

"He who rules by kindness is the slave of thieves," I answered,
penning the letter we had decided to indite.

The Vicomte laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

"Well," he said, "so long as we begin as we intend to go on."

Such in any case was the beginning, and this my introduction to the
duties I had undertaken. They seemed simple enough, and especially so
to one who was no novice at the administration of an estate. For my
father, in his softer moments--when, in fact, he had been brought to
recognize that my vices were at least hereditary--had initiated me
into the working of a great landed holding.

At seven o'clock we dined. Mademoiselle wore a white dress with a
broad yellow ribbon round her girlish waist. Her sleeves--I suppose it
was the fashion of the period--were wide and flowing, and her arms and
hands were those of a child.

Madame de Clericy, I remember, did not talk much, saying little more,
indeed, than such polite words as her position of hostess rendered
necessary. The burden of the conversation rested chiefly with her aged
husband, who sustained it simply and cheerily. His chief aim at this,
and indeed at all times, seemed to be to establish an agreeable and
mutual ease. I have seldom seen in a man, and especially in an old
man, such consideration for the feelings of others.

Lucille's clear laugh was ever ready to welcome some little
pleasantry, and she joined occasionally in the talk. I listened more
to the voice than to the words. Her gay humour found something
laughable in remarks that sounded grave enough, and I suddenly felt a