“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 possessions?  It will be a good example, Monsieur—­an excellent example!  For unhappily today more than ever we can say with the poet: 

’Non ullus aratro

Dignus honos; squalent abductis arva colonis,
Et—­et—­’

“And, by gracious!  I’ve forgotten the rest—­poor memory!  Ah, young sir, never grow old-never grow old!”

“‘Et curvae rigidum falces conflantur in ensem,"’

said Camors, continuing the broken quotation.

“Ah! you quote Virgil.  You read the classics.  I am charmed, really charmed.  That is not the characteristic of our rising generation, for modern youth has an idea it is bad taste to quote the ancients.  But that is not my idea, young sir—­not in the least.  Our fathers quoted freely because they were familiar with them.  And Virgil is my poet.  Not that I approve of all his theories of cultivation.  With all the respect I accord him, there is a great deal to be said on that point; and his plan of breeding in particular will never do—­never do!  Still, he is delicious, eh?  Very well, Monsieur Camors, now you see my little domain—­’mea paupera regna’—­the retreat of the sage.  Here I live, and live happily, like an old shepherd in the golden age—­loved by my neighbors, which is not easy; and venerating the gods, which is perhaps easier.  Ah, young sir, as you read Virgil, you will excuse me once more.  It was for me he wrote: 

       ’Fortunate senex, hic inter flumina nota,
        Et fontes sacros frigus captabis opacum.’

“And this as well: 

       ’Fortunatus et ille deos qui novit agrestes,
        Panaque, Silvanumque senem!’”

“Nymphasque sorores!” finished Camors, smiling and moving his head slightly in the direction of Madame de Tecle and her daughter, who preceded them.

“Quite to the point.  That is pure truth!” cried M. des Rameures, gayly.  “Did you hear that, niece?”