“Our notions are somewhat enlarged since those days,” said M. Quesnel;—“what was then thought a decent style of living would not now be endured.” Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words, but his anger soon yielded to contempt. “The ground about the château is encumbered with trees; I mean to cut some of them down.”
“Cut down the trees too!” said St. Aubert.
“Certainly. Why should I not? they interrupt my prospects. There is a chesnut which spreads its branches before the whole south side of the château, and which is so ancient that they tell me the hollow of its trunk will hold a dozen men. Your enthusiasm will scarcely contend that there can be either use, or beauty, in such a sapless old tree as this.”
“Good God!” exclaimed St. Aubert, “you surely will not destroy that noble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of the estate! It was in its maturity when the present mansion was built. How often, in my youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and sat embowered amidst a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has pattered above, and not a rain drop reached me! How often I have sat with a book in my hand, sometimes reading, and sometimes looking out between the branches upon the wide landscape, and the setting sun, till twilight came, and brought the birds home to their little nests among the leaves! How often—but pardon me,” added St. Aubert, recollecting that he was speaking to a man who could neither comprehend, nor allow his feelings, “I am talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned as the taste that would spare that venerable tree.”
“It will certainly come down,” said M. Quesnel; “I believe I shall plant some Lombardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that I shall leave of the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and tells me how much it adorns a villa of her uncle, not far from Venice.”
“On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,” continued St. Aubert, “where its spiry form is intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and where it plays over light and elegant porticos and colonnades, it, unquestionably, adorns the scene; but among the giants of the forest, and near a heavy gothic mansion—”
“Well, my good sir,” said M. Quesnel, “I will not dispute with you. You must return to Paris before our ideas can at all agree. But à propos of Venice, I have some thoughts of going thither, next summer; events may call me to take possession of that same villa, too, which they tell me is the most charming that can be imagined. In that case I shall leave the improvements I mention to another year, and I may, perhaps, be tempted to stay some time in Italy.”
Emily was somewhat surprised to hear him talk of being tempted to remain abroad, after he had mentioned his presence to be so necessary at Paris, that it was with difficulty he could steal away for a month or two; but St. Aubert understood the self-importance of the man too well to wonder at this trait; and the possibility, that these projected improvements might be deferred, gave him a hope, that they might never take place.
Before they separated for the night, M. Quesnel desired to speak with St. Aubert alone, and they retired to another room, where they remained a considerable time. The subject of this conversation was not known; but, whatever it might be, St. Aubert, when he returned to the supper-room, seemed much disturbed, and a shade of sorrow sometimes fell upon his features that alarmed Madame St. Aubert. When they were alone she was tempted to enquire the occasion of it, but the delicacy of mind, which had ever appeared in his conduct, restrained her: she considered that, if St. Aubert wished her to be acquainted with the subject of his concern, he would not wait on her enquiries.
On the following day, before M. Quesnel departed, he had a second conference with St. Aubert.