Aussi dort-il fort bien.”
Louis knitted his brows. “I have never been able to arrive at a clear comprehension of my cousin’s creed,” he said. “I know that it leads him to the erection of model pig-styes for his tenantry, and all that sort of thing; but disobey his orders, and see what happens! The pig-styes have not altered a jot of his authority down there, and as for his politics, I have my suspicions that his views are changing. A few days in Paris will change them still more. And after all,” he concluded lightly, “these things are freaks; one has generally to put up with something of the kind in one’s relations.”
“One has,” assented D’Aubeville. “Sometimes one has to put up with them in oneself.”
“I had a great-aunt,” observed the Comte de Périgny sympathetically, “who always wanted to be kind to parrots. She thought they were unhappy in cages, and bought up all she could find, and had them loose in her house—one of those old houses in the Marais. It was as much as one’s life was worth to go in. But she meant well, you know; and I expect it is much the same with Monsieur le Marquis. Only, of course, people who do not understand take these things seriously, and you cannot be surprised if they class your cousin with the La Rochefoucauld and the rest of that crew.”
“At any rate, he is with us in heart, whether he knows it or not,” muttered Saint-Ermay a trifle moodily. And having uttered this apologia for his erring kinsman, the young Royalist abruptly excused himself and crossed the room towards him.
His friends looked after him.
“Saint-Ermay is always bon enfant,” remarked D’Aubeville reflectively, “but I fancy he is not disposed to welcome his cousin’s visit with enthusiasm.”
“But, parbleu, it must be trying to have a near relative with Jacobin views,” suggested the latest comer; “especially when one is so devoted a Royalist as Monsieur le Vicomte.”
“Good heavens, man, M. de Château-Foix is not a Jacobin!” cried De Périgny, shocked. “He’s only one of those Liberal and constitutional people.”
“I’ll tell you what it is,” said D’Aubeville with unusual emphasis. “Le beau Saint-Ermay is losing his head over . . . a certain Royalist widow, now Girondin in her tastes and . . . alliances!”