No doubt she had discovered that a fatal attachment had been growing from hour to hour in the young girl’s heart, and like a prudent mother she was solicitous of seeing her daughter married, feeling perfectly well that no good could come of her encouragement of the English nobleman’s attentions, seeing that it was not at all probable a gentleman in his position would form what everyone must consider a mesalliance.
Towards the middle of the day Lord Ethalwood set out for his own residence.
He was not in his usual spirits upon returning to his chateau, and forbore from indulging in the pleasures of the chase.
In consequence of this he felt the time hang heavy on his hands and had serious thoughts of returning to Broxbridge Hall, and plunging again into the vortex of fashionable life. But there was a loadstone which kept him from carrying out this good resolution.
He had passed about a month of dull purposeless existence since his return, when one morning his valet delivered to him a letter in an unknown handwriting.
The unexpected missive came from an old French gentleman who had been at one time an intimate associate of the late earl, who was most anxious to pay his respects to his successor.
Any society was better than none, so in reply to the Frenchman’s letter Lord Ethalwood wrote an invitation to the writer, intimating that he would be glad if he would spend a day or two with him at his chateau.
The name of his father’s friend was the Chevalier Gustave de Monpres, and punctual to the time appointed the chevalier arrived in a post-chaise at the chateau.
He was a thin man, with a bald head and a heavy military moustache, and although verging on three score years and ten, was as active as a harlequin and as loquacious as a barber.
He very soon made himself known to the English nobleman, whom, he said, was the image of his friend, the deceased earl.