“Tell Mademoiselle d’Aucourt that I hope she is improving her English,” he said to Trenchard. He did not look at Gilbert, who handed to the Englishman the letter, which Trenchard put silently into an inner pocket. A moment later they had shaken hands with their companion.
“Good luck to you both,” said he, gathering up the reins. “May I say ‘Au revoir’? I shall expect to see you some day, Monsieur le Marquis, at Bury; it is a promise, is it not, if ever you come to Suffolk.”
“Certainly,” replied Château-Foix, with something resembling a smile. Then he drew himself up. “I hope to be at Ashley Court before very long.”
“To claim your betrothed,” finished Trenchard, crossing the t’s of this declaration without guessing at its significance. “Naturally. Well, I hope that day will soon come. Good-bye, sir. Good-bye, Vicomte. I trust your shoulder will not give you much more trouble. The invitation, of course, extends to you as well. If ever you can contrive it, I should be glad to hear from either of you . . . The best of luck! Au revoir!” He raised his hat and turned his mare.
Gilbert had but one thought in his mind—to repair his error. The last thing in the world that he desired at present was to provoke an explanation with Louis, and he bent his energies, quickened by apprehension, into the attempt to pass off his unfortunate remark as a natural question, or at least to prevent the Vicomte from thinking it over. He had never seen a situation more clearly, nor acted on his knowledge more promptly. Trenchard turned back once or twice in the saddle to wave his hand. At last he put his mare to the trot; he gained the signpost and was on the high-road, turned round for the last time, was seen to cram his hat more firmly on his head, and to set his face resolutely westward. The episode of the Englishman was over.
Gilbert plunged instantly into action. “There goes a good son of John Bull,” said he. “I trust that he will have a safe and pleasant journey to his native Suffolk. There is no doubt that he will instruct his neighbours in French methods of agriculture, but I am afraid that he will not represent them as superior to British. Did I not hear him lecturing you too on the subject, Louis?”
The Vicomte was looking at him rather oddly, but a smile strayed round his mouth at the remembrance. “There was more about the country gentlemen of England than about their farms, so far as I can recall,” he answered.
“I suspect,” observed Gilbert, pulling at his horse, “that the English country gentleman is to our friend the embodiment of all political and social virtue. I am sure that he thinks it a greater privilege to belong to that sacred class than to be born a Rohan or a Montmorency in France. . . . Well, shall we be starting? Can you manage to mount?”
“Perfectly, thanks,” responded the Vicomte, his foot in the stirrup. This solicitude was new, and the sudden flow of conversation amazed him.
“My idea,” resumed the Marquis, as he turned his horse’s head, “is to push on as far as La Cornuaille, and then, if we cannot possibly get other horses, to proceed on foot. These creatures will certainly not carry us further than that. We could then make up our minds whether to cross at Ingrande or Varades. Don’t you think that would be best?”