We had a bottle of wine together, and under its influence the Frenchman's natural gaiety soon resumed its wonted sway, his annoyance and anger disappeared, and as we conversed his voice brought back, as in a mental panorama, the old chateau on the road to Rennes, with its reedy lake and flower-enamelled lawn—the woods, the hills, and rockbound shores of Brittany, with softer thoughts of a time that would never come again—thoughts, however, that he was singularly fated to dispel.
"The story of your encounter with Hautois, and your casting him into the Black Torrent, where doubtless he has thrown many an unfortunate devil, will form one of the best legends in Brittany," said he, laughing.
"The old Countess Ninon?"
"Is well—though less blooming than her namesake, De l'Enclos."
"And Urbain—and old Bertrand?"
"All well, when I saw them last, about ten days ago. Peste! what a number of things have happened to me since then."
"And pretty Angelique?"
"Is now the happy wife of Jacquot Triquot, coachman to M. le Curé of St. Solidore. The countess punished her thus for her remarkable trick of turning you into a soubrette, my friend, which might have been a very serious joke!"
I smiled mournfully and muttered—
"Poor—poor Jacqueline!"