CHAPTER XV. — A STRANGER THANKSGIVING DAY.
There was a curious scene in our salon the day after the news had come of the great victory of Lens. Clement Darpent had been brought in by my brother, who wished him to hear some English songs which my sister and I had been practicing. He had been trying to learn English, and perhaps understood it better than he could speak it, but he was somewhat perplexed by those two gallant lines—
‘I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.’
Annora’s eyes flashed with disappointed anger as she said, ‘You enter not into the sentiment, Monsieur. I should have hoped that if any Frenchman could, it would be you!’
‘For my part,’ observed my mother, ‘I am not surprised at the question not being appreciated by the gens de la robe.’
I saw Eustace look infinitely annoyed at this insult to his friend’s profession, and to make it worse, Gaspard, who had come home that morning from the palace, exclaimed, having merely caught the word ‘honour’—
‘Yes, the gens de la robe hate our honour. That is why the King said, when news of our great victory came, ‘Oh, how sorry the Parliament will be!’
‘Did he?’ exclaimed my mother. ‘Is it true, my grandson?’
‘True; yes indeed, Madame ma Grandmere,’ replied Gaspard. ‘And you should have seen how all the world applauded him.’