While the Countess enquired for refreshment, the Count, attended by his son, went to look over some part of the château, and Lady Blanche reluctantly remained to witness the discontent and ill-humour of her step-mother.
“How long have you lived in this desolate place?” said her ladyship, to the old housekeeper, who came to pay her duty.
“Above twenty years, your ladyship, on the next feast of St. Jerome.”
“How happened it, that you have lived here so long, and almost alone, too? I understood, that the château had been shut up for some years?”
“Yes, madam, it was for many years after my late lord, the Count, went to the wars; but it is above twenty years, since I and my husband came into his service. The place is so large, and has of late been so lonely, that we were lost in it, and, after some time, we went to live in a cottage at the end of the woods, near some of the tenants, and came to look after the château, every now and then. When my lord returned to France from the wars, he took a dislike to the place, and never came to live here again, and so he was satisfied with our remaining at the cottage. Alas—alas! how the château is changed from what it once was! What delight my late lady used to take in it! I well remember when she came here a bride, and how fine it was. Now, it has been neglected so long, and is gone into such decay! I shall never see those days again!”
The Countess appearing to be somewhat offended by the thoughtless simplicity, with which the old woman regretted former times, Dorothée added—“But the château will now be inhabited, and cheerful again; not all the world could tempt me to live in it alone.”
“Well, the experiment will not be made, I believe,” said the Countess, displeased that her own silence had been unable to awe the loquacity of this rustic old housekeeper, now spared from further attendance by the entrance of the Count, who said he had been viewing part of the château, and found, that it would require considerable repairs and some alterations, before it would be perfectly comfortable, as a place of residence. “I am sorry to hear it, my lord,” replied the Countess. “And why sorry, madam?” “Because the place will ill repay your trouble; and were it even a paradise, it would be insufferable at such a distance from Paris.”
The Count made no reply, but walked abruptly to a window. “There are windows, my lord, but they neither admit entertainment, nor light; they show only a scene of savage nature.”
“I am at a loss, madam,” said the Count, “to conjecture what you mean by savage nature. Do those plains, or those woods, or that fine expanse of water, deserve the name?”
“Those mountains certainly do, my lord,” rejoined the Countess, pointing to the Pyrenees, “and this château, though not a work of rude nature, is, to my taste, at least, one of savage art.” The Count coloured highly. “This place, madam, was the work of my ancestors,” said he, “and you must allow me to say, that your present conversation discovers neither good taste, nor good manners.” Blanche, now shocked at an altercation, which appeared to be increasing to a serious disagreement, rose to leave the room, when her mother’s woman entered it; and the Countess, immediately desiring to be shown to her own apartment, withdrew, attended by Mademoiselle Bearn.