l buttons, and he wore a loose coat of maroon velvet and
a soft felt hat. Camors immediately recognized the white hair and heavy
black eyebrows as the same he had seen bending over the violin the night
before.

"Uncle," said Madame de Tecle, introducing the young Count by a wave of
the hand: "This is Monsieur de Camors."

"Monsieur de Camors," repeated the old man, in a deep and sonorous voice,
"you are most welcome;" and opening the gate he gave his guest a soft,
brown hand, as he continued: "I knew your mother intimately, and am
charmed to have her son under my roof. Your mother was a most amiable
person, Monsieur, and certainly merited--" The old man hesitated, and
finished his sentence by a sonorous "Hem!" that resounded and rumbled in
his chest as if in the vault of a church.

Then he took the letter Camors handed to him, held it a long distance
from his eyes, and began reading it. The General had told the Count it
would be impolite to break suddenly to M. des Rameures the plan they had
concocted. The latter, therefore, found the note only a very warm
introduction of Camors. The postscript gave him the announcement of the
marriage.

"The devil!" he cried. "Did you know this, Elise? Campvallon is to be
married!"

All women, widows, matrons, or maids, are deeply interested in matters
pertaining to marriage.

"What, uncle! The General! Can it be? Are you sure?"

"Um--rather. He writes the news himself. Do you know the lady, Monsieur
le Comte?"

"Mademoiselle de Luc d'Estrelles is my cousin," Camors replied.

"Ah! That is right; and she is of a certain age?"

"She is about twenty-five."

M. des Rameures received this intelligence with one of the resonant
coughs peculiar to him.

"May I ask, without indiscretion, whether she is endowed with a pleasing
person?"

"She is exceedingly beautiful," was the reply.

"Hem! So much the better. It seems to me the General is a little old for
her: but every one is the best judge of his own affairs: Hem! the best
judge of his own affairs. Elise, my dear, whenever you are ready we will
follow you. Pardon me, Monsieur le Comte, for receiving you in this
rustic attire, but I am a laborer. Agricola--a mere herdsman--'custos
gregis', as the poet says. Walk before me, Monsieur le Comte, I beg you.
Marie, child, respect my corn!

"And can we hope, Monsieur de Camors, that you have the happy idea of
quitting the great Babylon to install yourself among your rural
possessi