There was a dignity in the manners of M. de Lambert to me formidable and oppressive. It showed in his tall, erect figure, his deep tone, his silvered hair and mustache. There was a merry word between the kisses of one daughter; between those of the other only tears and a broken murmur.
"Oh, papa," said Louison, as she greeted him, "I do love you—but I dread that—tickly old mustache. Mon Dieu! what a lover—you must have been!"
Then she presented me, and put her hand upon my arm, looking proudly at her father.
"My captain!" said she. "Did you ever see a handsomer Frenchman?"
"There are many, and here is one," said he, turning to the young count, who stood behind him—a fine youth, tall, strong-built, well-spoken, with blond hair and dark, keen eyes. I admit frankly I had not seen a better figure of a man. I assure you, he had the form of Hercules, the eye of Mars. It was an eye to command—women; for I had small reason to admire his courage when I knew him better. He took a hand of each young lady, and kissed it with admirable gallantry.
"Dieu! it is not so easy always to agree with one's father," said
Louison.
We went riding that afternoon—Therese and her marquis and Louison and I. The first two went on ahead of us; we rode slowly, and for a time no word was spoken. Winds had stripped the timber, and swept its harvest to the walls and hollows, where it lay bleaching in the sun. Birch and oak and maple were holding bared arms to the wind, as if to toughen them for storm and stress. I felt a mighty sadness, wondering if my own arms were quite seasoned for all that was to come. The merry-hearted girl beside me was ever like a day of June—the color of the rose in her cheek, its odor always in her hair and lace. There was never an hour of autumn in her life.
"Alas, you are a very silent man!" said she, presently, with a little sigh.
"Only thinking," I said.
"Of what?"