At this moment the lady, looking towards the little group of men, recognized Père Jacques.
"If I do not mistake," she exclaimed, making use of the mountain patois, "I see one of my oldest friends yonder—a herdsman who used to be in my father's service! Père Jacques, is it really you?"
The herdsman stepped forward eagerly.
"Ah, Mam'selle Marguerite," he stammered, "is it possible that—that you remember me?"
And he scarcely dared to touch with his lips the gloved hand that his mistress gave him to kiss.
"George," said the Countess, "do you not remember Père Jacques?"
"Ah!—yes," replied the Baron, carelessly; adding, half aloud, "my dear sister, do not let us stay here talking with these boors."
"Nay, brother, this place is not Versailles, Dieu merci! Let me talk a little with my old friend—he reminds me of the days when I was so happy."
"And so poor," muttered the dragoon between his teeth, as he turned away and began talking chasse with the Curé of St. Saturnin.
"And now tell me, Père Jacques," said the young Countess, seating herself at the foot of a chestnut-tree, "why have you left the château de Pradines?"