the host, or did his geniality conceal some hidden scheme? Norbert
was utterly unable to settle this question, for though not gifted with
much penetration, he had studied his father's every look as a slave
studies his master, and knew exactly what annoyed and what pleased him.

The Count de Puymandour lived in a magnificent house, with his daughter
Marie, about three miles from Champdoce, and he was exceedingly fond of
entertaining; but the gentry, who did not for a moment decline to accept
his grand dinners, did not hesitate to say that Puymandour was a thief
and a rogue. Had he been convicted of larceny, he could not have been
spoken of with more disdainful contempt. But he was very wealthy,
and possessed at least five millions of francs. Of course this was an
excellent reason for hating him, but the fact was, that Puymandour was
a very worthy man, and had made his money by speculation in wool on the
Spanish frontier. For a long period he had lived happy and respected
in his native town of Orthez, when all at once he was tempted by the
thought of titular rank, and from that time his life was one long
misery. He took the name of one of his estates, he bought his title in
Italy, and ordered his coat-of-arms from a heraldic agent in Paris, and
now his ambition was to be treated as a real nobleman. The mere fact of
dining with the eccentric Duke de Champdoce, who never invited any one
to his table, was to him, as it were, a real patent of nobility.

At ten o'clock he rose and declared he must leave, and the Duke escorted
him the length of the avenue to the great gates opening on the main
road, and Norbert, who walked a few paces in the rear, caught now and
then a few words of their conversation.

"Yes," remarked Puymandour, "I will give a million down."

Then came a few words from the Duke, of which Norbert could only catch
the words, "thousands and millions."

He paid, however, but little attention, for his mind was many miles
away. Since the unlooked-for meeting with that fair young face, he had
thought of nothing else, and he mechanically shook hands with, and bade
his guest "Good-night" when his father did.

When the Duke was sure that M. de Puymandour could not hear his voice,
he took his son by the arm, and the bitterness of feeling which he had
so long repressed burst forth in words.

"This," said he, "is a specimen of the mushroom aristocracy that has
sprung up, and not a bad sample either; for though he is