‘And the other, Norvins?—though I scarcely feel any interest in him.’
‘I’m sorry for it,’ said he, laughing; ‘but won’t you move forward?’
With that he made me a polite bow to precede him towards the dinner-room, and followed me with the jaunty step and the light gesture of an easy and contented nature.
I need scarcely say that I did not sit next the abbé that day at dinner; on the contrary, I selected the most stupid-looking old man I could find for my neighbour, hugging myself in the thought, that, where there is little agreeability, Nature may kindly have given in recompense some traits of honesty and some vestiges of honour. Indeed, such a disgust did I feel for the amusing features of the pleasantest part of the company, and so inextricably did I connect repartee with rascality, that I trembled at every good thing I heard, and stole away early to bed, resolving never to take sudden fancies to agreeable people as long as I lived—an oath which a long residence in a certain country that shall be nameless happily permits me to keep, with little temptation to transgress.
The next morning was indeed a brilliant one—the earth refreshed by rain, the verdure more brilliant, the mountain streams grown fuller; all the landscape seemed to shine forth in its gladdest features. I was up and stirring soon after sunrise; and with all my prejudices against such a means of ‘lengthening one’s days,’ I sat at my window, actually entranced with the beauty of the scene. Beyond the river there rose a heath-clad mountain, along which misty masses of vapour swept hurriedly, disclosing as they passed some tiny patch of cultivation struggling for life amid granite rocks and abrupt precipices. As the sun grew stronger, the grey tints became brown and the brown grew purple, while certain dark lines that tracked their way from summit to base began to shine like silver, and showed the course of many a mountain torrent tumbling and splashing towards that little lake that lay calm as a mirror below. Immediately beneath my window was the garden of the château— a succession of terraces descending to the very river. The quaint yew hedges carved into many a strange device, the balustrades half hidden by flowering shrubs and creepers, the marble statues peeping out here and there, trim and orderly as they looked, were a pleasant feature of the picture, and heightened the effect of the desolate grandeur of the distant view. The very swans that sailed about on the oval pond told of habitation and life, just as the broad expanded wing that soared above the mountain peak spoke of the wild region where the eagle was king.
My musings were suddenly brought to a close by a voice on the terrace beneath. It was that of a man who was evidently, from his pace, enjoying his morning’s promenade under the piazza of the château, while he hummed a tune to pass away the time:—
‘“Why, soldiers, why
Should we be melancholy, boys?
Why, soldiers, why?
Whose business——”
Holloa, there, François, ain’t they stirring yet? Why, it’s past six o’clock!’
The person addressed was a serving-man, who in the formidable attire of an English groom—in which he was about as much at home as a coronation champion feels in plate armour—was crossing the garden towards the stables.
‘No, sir; the count won’t start before eight.’