During dinner Camors, secretly excited by the immediate vicinity of Madame de Tecle, essayed to triumph over that hostility that the presence of a stranger invariably excites in the midst of intimacies which it disturbs.  His calm superiority asserted itself so mildly it was pardoned for its grace.  Without a gayety unbecoming his mourning, he nevertheless made such lively sallies and such amusing jokes about his first mishaps at Reuilly as to break up the stiffness of the party.  He conversed pleasantly with each one in turn, and, seeming to take the deepest interest in his affairs, put him at once at his ease.

He skilfully gave M. des Rameures the opportunity for several happy quotations; spoke naturally to him of artificial pastures, and artificially of natural pastures; of breeding and of non-breeding cows; of Dishley sheep—­and of a hundred other matters he had that morning crammed from an old encyclopaedia and a county almanac.

To Madame de Tecle directly he spoke little, but he did not speak one word during the dinner that was not meant for her; and his manner to women was so caressing, yet so chivalric, as to persuade them, even while pouring out their wine, that he was ready to die for them.  The dear charmers thought him a good, simple fellow, while he was the exact reverse.

On leaving the table they went out of doors to enjoy the starlight evening, and M. des Rameures—­whose natural hospitality was somewhat heightened by a goblet of his own excellent wine—­said to Camors: 

“My dear Count, you eat honestly, you talk admirably, you drink like a man.  On my word, I am disposed to regard you as perfection—­as a paragon of neighbors—­if in addition to all the rest you add the crowning one.  Do you love music?”

“Passionately!” answered Camors, with effusion.

“Passionately?  Bravo!  That is the way one should love everything that is worth loving.  I am delighted, for we make here a troupe of fanatical melomaniacs, as you will presently perceive.  As for myself, I scrape wildly on the violin, as a simple country amateur—­’Orpheus in silvis’.  Do not imagine, however, Monsieur le Comte, that we let the worship of this sweet art absorb all our faculties—­all our time-certainly not.  When you take part in our little reunions, which of course you will do, you will find we disdain no pursuit worthy of thinking beings.  We pass from music to literature—­to science—­even to philosophy; but we do this—­I pray you to believe—­without pedantry and without leaving the tone of familiar converse.  Sometimes we read verses, but we never make them; we love the ancients and do not fear the moderns:  we only fear those who would lower the mind and debase the heart.  We love the past while we render justice to the present; and flatter ourselves at not seeing many things that to you appear beautiful, useful, and true.

“Such are we, my young friend.  We call ourselves the ’Colony of Enthusiasts,’ but our malicious neighbors call us the ’Hotel de Rambouillet.’  Envy, you know, is a plant that does not flourish in the country; but here, by way of exception, we have a few jealous people—­rather bad for them, but of no consequence to us.