A curious thing happened to Bastien at this time. When he had been nearly penniless, he had thought it both wicked and absurd that he should feel so acutely the fascination of a penniless Scotch girl like Lady Betty, and when he had twenty thousand pounds, it seemed still more wicked and absurd. And as money seeks money, his thoughts turned instantly to Flora Mackenzie.
A few days after this, Counsellor Mackenzie made his way up the stairs of the gloomy palace, and on asking for De Bourmont was shown into the anteroom reserved for the gentlemen in waiting. There sat De Bourmont, who was delighted to see the honest counsellor.
“My friend,” presently said old Mackenzie, fixing his clear blue eyes on De Bourmont, “I have startling news in my family. Monsieur Bastien has asked for the hand of my daughter Flora.”
De Bourmont was surprised; this was quick work.
“And I have come to ask your opinion of this same Bastien, who”—here the counsellor brought his stick down on the floor with a thwack—“I believe to be as arrant a knave as God’s sun shines on!”
De Bourmont laughed at this novel way of asking advice.
“I have nothing against Monsieur Bastien,” he replied, “and if I had, I could not mention it, being a fellow exile with him.”
“Not to save my child?”
“My dear counsellor, I know of no man better able to take care of your lovely daughter than you are.”
“Then you will say nothing one way or the other?”