Very prompt at the sound came an old man—reverent and sorrowful looking—with a white wand; for he was the seneschal of the chateau of Chatel-morant.
"Your niece," said the baron, "who comes hither from the town of Bordeaux to visit you, and whom I saw but yester even,—has she returned?"
"She went this morning, monseigneur," said the seneschal; "she has preparations to make; for, God save the pretty child! she is to be married on the day of Blessed St. John."
The baron frowned; for he was not an admirer of the saints, being quite, indeed, on the other side of the hedge.
"Say the number of the day, and the name of the month," he replied, angrily; "and do not torment me with that shaveling jargon which they talk in the monastery of Andrew, whom they call St. Andrew at Bordeaux."
The seneschal, who was accustomed to be bullied, particularly upon religious subjects, crossed himself behind his back; for he was a prudent man, and, owing to the absence of mind of the baron, who was always experimentalizing in the black art, managed, one way or other, to pick up so much as to make his place a tolerably profitable one.
"Married!" said the baron; "and to whom?"
"Just to honest and brave Jacques Fort—the stoutest mariner who sails out of the Garonne. He has got a ship of his own, now—the Sainte Vierge; and to-day he sails upon his first voyage, as far as Bayonne."
"He sails to-day—so; and the maiden's name—your niece's name—what is that?"