‘Fortunate senex, hic inter flumina nota, Et fontes sacros frigus captabis opacum.’
‘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?”
“I do not believe you, my dear! I do not believe you!” The old man laughed heartily. “Do not believe her, Monsieur de Camors; women have the faculty of understanding compliments in every language.”
This conversation brought them to the chateau, where they sat down on a bench before the drawing-room windows to enjoy the view.
Camors praised judiciously the well-kept park, accepted an invitation to dinner the next week, and then discreetly retired, flattering himself that his introduction had made a favorable impression upon M. des Rameures, but regretting his apparent want of progress with the fairy-footed niece.
“This youth,” said M. des Rameures, when he was left alone with Madame de Tecle, “has some touch of the ancients, which is something; but he still resembles his father, who was vicious as sin itself. His eyes and his smile recall some traits of his admirable mother; but positively, my dear Elise, he is the portrait of his father, whose manners and whose principles they say he has inherited.”
“Current rumor, my dear uncle, is often mistaken, and always exaggerates. For my part, I like the young man, who seems thoroughly refined and at his ease.”
“Bah! I suppose because he compared you to a nymph in the fable.”
“If he compared me to a nymph in the fable he was wrong; but he never addressed to me a word in French that was not in good taste. Before we condemn him, uncle, let us see for ourselves. It is a habit you have always recommended to me, you know.”
“You can not deny, niece,” said the old man with irritation, “that he exhales the most decided and disagreeable odor of Paris! He is too polite--too studied! Not a shadow of enthusiasm--no fire of youth! He never laughs as I should wish to see a man of his age laugh; a young man should roar to split his waistband!”
“What! you would see him merry so soon after losing his father in such a tragic manner, and he himself nearly ruined! Why, uncle, what can you mean?”