Though but little given to sentiment, he was really affected by the sight of the country in which he was born—where he had played as a child, and of which he had heard nothing since the death of his aunt.
Everything was changed: still the outlines of the landscape remained the same; the valley of the Oiselle was as bright and laughing as in days gone by.
“I recognize it!” he exclaimed, with a delight that made him forget politics. “I recognize it!”
Soon the changes became more striking.
The carriage entered Sairmeuse, and rattled over the stones of the only street in the village.
This street, in former years, had been unpaved, and had always been rendered impassable by wet weather.
“Ah, ha!” murmured the duke, “this is an improvement!”
It was not long before he noticed others. The dilapidated, thatched hovels had given place to pretty and comfortable white cottages with green blinds, and a vine hanging gracefully over the door.
As the carriage passed the public square in front of the church, Martial observed the groups of peasants who were still talking there.
“What do you think of all these peasants?” he inquired of his father. “Do they have the appearance of people who are preparing a triumphal reception for their old masters?”