Van Heldre read her thoughts in the movement of her lips.
“Don’t much matter,” he said. “Vine, old fellow, think I shall turn over a new leaf.”
“Eh? New leaf?”
“Yes; get a good piece of marsh, make a dam to keep out the sea, and take to keeping cows. What capital cream!”
“Yes, Mr Pradelle,” continued Aunt Margaret; “we are Huguenots of the Huguenots, and it is the dream of my life that Henri should assert his right to the title his father repudiates, and become Comte des Vignes.”
“Ah!” said Pradelle.
“Vigorous steps have only to be taken to wrest the family estates in Auvergne from the usurpers who hold them. I have long fought for this, but so far, I grieve to say, vainly. My brother here has mistaken notions about the respectability of trade, and is content to vegetate.”
“Oh, you miserable old vegetable!” said Van Heldre to himself, as he gave his friend a droll look, and shook his head.
“To vegetate in this out-of-the-way place when he should be watching over the welfare of his country, and as a nobleman of that land, striving to stem the tide of democracy. He will not do it; but if I live my nephew Henri shall, as soon as he can be rescued from the degrading influence of trade, and the clerk’s stool in an office. Ah, my poor boy, I pity you, and I say out boldly that I am not surprised that you should have thrown up post after post in disgust, and refused to settle down to such sordid wretchedness.”
“My dear Marguerite! our visitors.”