We turned into the cedar-walk, which was a long shadowy aisle, or bower, overhung with magnificent cedars of Lebanon, running parallel with the banks of the noble river, and so still and secluded that no more proper place could be found for a private consultation.
“Well,” said the old man, speaking gently, but not looking at me, perhaps for fear of embarrassing me by his eye, “you know I am in some sort, not only your legal adviser, but your self-constituted guardian, and father confessor—so now, without farther preamble, who is he, Valerie?”
“I will not affect to misunderstand you, Judge, though, upon my word, you are entirely mistaken in your conjecture.”
“Upon your word! entirely mistaken! I think, not—I am sure, not.”
“You are, indeed. I have not seen him above four times, nor spoken fifty words to him.”
“Never mind, never mind—who is he?”
“An acquaintance of Monsieur Gironac’s, Monsieur le Comte de Chavannes. His father emigrated hither during the revolution, engaged in commerce, and made a fortune of some 40,000 pounds. At the restoration, the old Count returned to France, and was made by Louis XVIII a Colonel of the Legion of Honour, and died shortly afterwards. There is an estate, I believe, in Brittany, but Monsieur de Chavannes, who was at school here, and has passed all his younger days in this country, is more an Englishman than a Frenchman, and only visits France at rare intervals. That is all I know about him, and that only by accident, Monsieur Gironac having told me, in his lively way, what I should not have dreamed of inquiring.”
“Very proper, indeed—and very good so far, but one would like to know something definite about a man before taking him for one’s husband.”
“I should think so, indeed, Judge; but as I am not going to take him for my husband, I am quite contented with knowing what I do know of him.”
“And what do you know?—of yourself,—I speak of your own knowledge? No hearsay evidence in the case.”