“Have you been at your old tricks, Chesnel?” asked the Marquis.
Mlle. Armande made Chesnel an eager sign, dreadful to see. They understood each other. The poor father, the flower of feudal honor, must die with all his illusions. A compact of silence and devotion was ratified between the two noble hearts by a simple inclination of the head.
“Ah! Chesnel, it was not exactly in this way that the d’Esgrignons went into Italy at the end of the fourteenth century, when Marshal Trivulzio, in the service of the King of France, served under a d’Esgrignon, who had a Bayard too under his orders. Other times, other pleasures. And, for that matter, the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse is at least the equal of a Marchesa di Spinola.”
And, on the strength of his genealogical tree, the old man swung himself off with a coxcomb’s air, as if he himself had once made a conquest of the Marchesa di Spinola, and still possessed the Duchess of to-day.
The two companions in unhappiness were left together on the garden bench, with the same thought for a bond of union. They sat for a long time, saying little save vague, unmeaning words, watching the father walk away in his happiness, gesticulating as if he were talking to himself.
“What will become of him now?” Mlle. Armande asked after a while.
“Du Croisier has sent instructions to the MM. Keller; he is not to be allowed to draw any more without authorization.”
“And there are debts,” continued Mlle. Armande.
“I am afraid so.”
“If he is left without resources, what will he do?”