“That reminds me,” said he, “I am going to leave Paris.”
“You are going to leave Paris? And for how long?”
“Oh, an indefinite time.”
“And who gave you that bright idea?”
“M. de Duras.”
“M. de Duras advised you to leave Paris?”
“Oh, no, he only gave me the idea that it would be a good thing not to become like M. de Duras. I saw myself in a flash as I would be twenty years hence, old M. de Rochefort with a painted face, living socially on the tolerance of his friends and mentally on the latest rumour and the cast-off wit of others. Besides, I was always fond of a country life; besides—I have had my fling in Paris, I have spent I don’t know how many thousand francs in four years, and if I go on I will be impoverished, and I can stand many things, Chartres, but I could never stand being your poor man.
“I do not mind living on a crust of bread in the least, but I object very strongly to living with the knowledge that I cannot have venison if I want it. I have come from a queer stock, we have always gone the pace, but we have all of us had a grain of commonsense somewhere in our natures to check us in time.
“People say I am mad simply because they only see me spending my money in Paris; they do not know in the least that I have a reputation for commonsense on my estates as solid as an oak-tree. My people in the country know me and they respect me, because I know them and will not let myself be cheated. People say I am mad—silly fools—have they never considered the fact that I have always steered clear of politics?”
“Oh, oh!” said Chartres; “good heavens, what are you saying?”