Frank listened and answered as well as he could, making a remark now and then about agriculture which astonished the farmer considerably. He had the tact to respect Mr. Rougeant's feelings, and the latter was not slow in showing his appreciation of it.
"You seem to know more about farming than I do," remarked Mr. Rougeant.
Frank felt flattered. He began to talk about agricultural chemistry, but he was soon stopped by his host.
"I don't believe in theory," interrupted Mr. Rougeant, "give me facts, show me results. A great many people write about farming who can hardly distinguish a parsnip from a carrot."
The young man dared not go against the farmer. He saw, by his manner, that he was not a man to be contradicted. He looked at Adèle. She was smiling, but directly her father looked round towards her, her face became as grave as a nun's.
Mr. Rougeant continued triumphantly to talk about his farm. It was all the world to him, and almost the only thing about which he could converse.
He never read a book.
During the conversation Frank learnt that he had about one hundred vergées of land, one fifth of which he kept, the remainder was let to other farmers. He had but one workman, a man about sixty years old, who had worked for the Rougeants for more than forty years. His name was Jacques Dorant. Then, there was his horse; it was old now, but still good. Ah! when he was younger, he was a splendid horse, such strength, such form, such a fast trotter, frisky, but as gentle as a lamb.
Thought Frank: "If he is to be credited, there has never been such a horse since the days of Bucephalus, the famous horse of Alexander."
During the whole time that they had been in the parlour, the young man had not found courage to address a word to Adèle. He was very careful about his tenure. He spoke in a voice which he endeavoured to soften; he uttered the best English which he could frame,—for Mr. Rougeant spoke in English this time—and when there was an opportunity of displaying his talents, he availed himself of it with eagerness.