I repeat, it was nice of the Baron to think of me. I could easily picture to myself as I reread his note his superb estate, that stronghold of his ancestors; the hearty welcome at its gates; the gamekeepers in their green fustians; the pairs of perfectly trained dogs; the abundance of partridges and hares; and the breakfast in the old château, a feast that would be replete with wit and old Burgundy. How splendid are these Norman autumns! What exhilarating old days during this season of dropping apples, blue skies, and falling leaves! Days when the fat little French partridges nestle in companies in the fields, shorn to stubble after the harvest, and sleek hares at sunrise lift their long ears cautiously above the dew-bejeweled cobwebs along the ditches to make sure that the green feeding-patch beyond is safe from the man and the gun.
Fat, garrulous Monsieur Toupin of the village becomes under the spell of Madame Vinet's best cognac so uproarious when he has killed one of these sleek, strong-limbed hares, that madame is obliged to draw the turkey-red curtain over the window of her small café that Monsieur Toupin may not be seen by his neighbours.
"Suzette," I called, "my candle! I must get a good night's sleep, for to-morrow I shoot with the Baron."
"Tiens!" exclaimed the little maid. "At the grand château?" And her frank eyes opened wide. "Ah, mais—but monsieur will not have to work hard for a partridge there."
"And so you know the château, my little one?"
"Ah, mais oui, monsieur! Is it not at La Sapinière near Les Roses? My grandfather was gardener there when I was little. I passed the château once with my mother and heard the guns back of the great wall. Monsieur will be content—ah, mais oui!"
"My coffee at five-thirty promptly, ma petite!"
"Bien, monsieur." And Suzette passed me my lighted candle, the flame of which rose brilliantly from its wick.
"That means good luck, monsieur," said she, pointing to the candle-flame, as my foot touched the winding stairs.