There is no Parisian who is not happy in the belief that he makes all the noise he hears, writes all the books he reads, edits all the journals on which he breakfasts, writes all the vaudevilles on which he sups, and invents all the ‘bon mots’ he repeats.

But this flattering allusion vanishes the moment chance takes him a mile away from the Rue Vivienne.  The proof confounds him, for he is bored terribly, and becomes sick of himself.  Perhaps his secret soul, weakened and unnerved, may even be assailed by the suspicion that he is a feeble human creature after all!  But no!  He returns to Paris; the collective electricity again inspires him; he rebounds; he recovers; he is busy, keen to discern, active, and recognizes once more, to his intense satisfaction, that he is after all one of the elect of God’s creatures—­momentarily degraded, it may be, by contact with the inferior beings who people the departments.

Camors had within himself more resources than most men to conquer the blue-devils; but in these early hours of his experience in country life, deprived of his club, his horses, and his cook, banished from all his old haunts and habits, he began to feel terribly the weight of time.  He, therefore, experienced a delicious sensation when suddenly he heard that regular beat of hoofs upon the road which to his trained ear announced the approach of several riding-horses.  The next moment he saw advancing up his shaded avenue two ladies on horseback, followed by a groom with a black cockade.

Though quite amazed at this charming spectacle, Camors remembered his duty as a gentleman and descended the steps of the terrace.  But the two ladies, at sight of him, appeared as surprised as himself, suddenly drew rein and conferred hastily.  Then, recovering, they continued their way, traversed the lower court below the terraces, and disappeared in the direction of the lake.

As they passed the lower balustrade Camors bowed low, and they returned his salutation by a slight inclination; but he was quite sure, in spite of the veils that floated from their riding-hats, that he recognized the black-eyed singer and the young pianist.  After a moment he called to his old steward,

“Monsieur Leonard,” he said, “is this a public way?”

“It certainly is not a public way, Monsieur le Comte,” replied Leonard.

“Then what do these ladies mean by using this road?”

“Bless me, Monsieur le Comte, it is so long since any of the owners have been at Reuilly!  These ladies mean no harm by passing through your woods; and sometimes they even stop at the chateau while my wife gives them fresh milk.  Shall I tell them that this displeases Monsieur le Comte?”

“My good Leonard, why the deuce do you suppose it displeases me?  I only asked for information.  And now who are the ladies?”

“Oh!  Monsieur, they are quite respectable ladies; Madame de Tecle, and her daughter, Mademoiselle Marie.”