“You are not an ordinary woman, and you ought to understand me,” he said in her ear. “Malin’s conscience will never allow him to leave you in peace; he will set some trap to injure you. I implore you to be careful of all your actions, even the most unimportant. Compromise, negotiate; those are my last words.”
The brothers stood motionless behind their cousin and watched the berlingot as it turned through the iron gates and took the road to Troyes. Laurence repeated the old man’s last words. But sage experience should not present itself to the eyes of youth in a berlingot, colored stockings, and a queue. These ardent young hearts had no conception of the change that had passed over France; indignation crisped their nerves, honor boiled with their noble blood through every vein.
“He, the head of the house of Chargeboeuf!” said the Marquis de Simeuse. “A man who bears the motto Adsit fortior, the noblest of warcries!”
“We are no longer in the days of Saint-Louis,” said the younger Simeuse.
“But ‘We die singing,’” said the countess. “The cry of the five young girls of my house is mine!”
“And ours, ‘Cy meurs,’” said the elder Simeuse. “Therefore, no quarter, I say; for, on reflection, we shall find that our relative had pondered well what he told us—Gondreville to be the title of a Malin!”
“And his seat!” said the younger.
“Mansart designed it for noble stock, and the populace will get their children in it!” exclaimed the elder.
“If that were to come to pass, I’d rather see Gondreville in ashes!” cried Mademoiselle Cinq-Cygne.
One of the villagers, who had entered the grounds to examine a calf Monsieur d’Hauteserre was trying to sell him, overheard these words as he came from the cow-sheds.