“She is about twenty-five.”
M. des Rameures received this intelligence with one of the resonant coughs peculiar to him.
“May I ask, without indiscretion, whether she is endowed with a pleasing person?”
“She is exceedingly beautiful,” was the reply.
“Hem! So much the better. It seems to me the General is a little old for her: but every one is the best judge of his own affairs: Hem! the best judge of his own affairs. Elise, my dear, whenever you are ready we will follow you. Pardon me, Monsieur le Comte, for receiving you in this rustic attire, but I am a laborer. Agricola—a mere herdsman—‘custos gregis’, as the poet says. Walk before me, Monsieur le Comte, I beg you. Marie, child, respect my corn!
“And can we hope, Monsieur de Camors, that you have the happy idea of quitting the great Babylon to install yourself among your rural possessions? It will be a good example, Monsieur—an excellent example! For unhappily today more than ever we can say with the poet:
‘Non ullus aratro
Dignus honos; squalent abductis arva colonis,
Et—et—’
“And, by gracious! I’ve forgotten the rest—poor memory! Ah, young sir, never grow old-never grow old!”
“‘Et curvae rigidum falces conflantur in ensem,”’
said Camors, continuing the broken quotation.