“I know not whether it is because I saw the other first, but I decidedly prefer Nozay.”
The door again opened, and the servant loudly announced, “Monsieur Paul.”
“Who is this?” inquired Lectoure, listlessly, “another country neighbour?”
“No; this is quite another sort of person,” replied Emanuel, with agitation. “How does this man dare to present himself here?”
“Ah! ah! a plebeian--eh? a common fellow, is he not? but rich, I suppose. No--a poet? musician? painter? well, I can assure you, Emanuel, that they are beginning to receive this sort of people--that accursed philosophy has confounded every thing. It cannot be helped, my dear fellow, we must courageously make up our minds to it--we have come to that. An artist sits down by a great noble, elbows him, touches the corner of his hat to him, remains seated when the other rises--they converse together on court matters--they jest, they joke, they squabble, it is _bon ton_ though decidedly bad taste.”
“You are mistaken, Lectoure,” replied Emanuel; “he is neither poet, painter, or musician: he is a man to whom I must speak alone. Just lead off Nozay, while I do the same with La Jarry.”
Upon this, the two young gentlemen took each of the country neighbours by the arm, and drew them away into another room, talking of shooting and travelling. The side door through which they went out, had scarcely closed upon them, when Paul appeared at the principal one. He went into the room he already knew, each corner of which concealed a door--the one led to a library, the other to the room in which he had been shut up on his first visit, awaiting the result of the conference between Marguerite and Emanuel, and then approaching the table, he remained there for a moment, looking attentively at the two doors, as though he had expected to see one of them opened. His hope was not fallacious. In a few moments, that of the library was opened, and he perceived a white form standing within it; he rushed towards it.
“And in ten minutes the contract is to be signed.”
“I suspected as much--he is a miserable wretch.”
“What’s to be done?” cried the young girl.
“There is that which will restore it,” said Paul, handing her a letter.
“The name of the village in which you will find your son, and the name of the woman in whose house he has been concealed.”