And Mademoiselle Brun slowly contemplated the whole landscape, taking in Denise, as it were, in passing.
“And there is our little friend,” she added, “down in the valley there who does not call.”
“Why do you call him little?” asked Denise, looking down at the Chateau de Vasselot. “He is not little.”
“He is not so large as the colonel,” explained mademoiselle.
“I wonder why he does not call?” said Denise, presently, looking down into the valley, as if she could perhaps see the explanation there.
“It has something to do with the social geography of the district,” said mademoiselle, “which we do not understand. The Cheap Funeral alone knows it. Half of the country she colours red, the other half black. Theoretically, we hate a number of persons who reciprocate the feeling heartily. Practically, we do not know of their existence. I imagine the Count de Vasselot hates us on the same principle.”
“But we are not going to be dictated to by a number of ignorant peasants,” cried Denise, angrily.
“I rather fancy we are.”
Denise was standing by the low wall, with her head thrown back. She was naturally energetic, and had the carriage that usually goes with that quality.
“Are you sure he is there?” she asked, still looking down at the château.