“Ah! you quote Virgil. You read the classics. I am charmed, really charmed. That is not the characteristic of our rising generation, for modern youth has an idea it is bad taste to quote the ancients. But that is not my idea, young sir—not in the least. Our fathers quoted freely because they were familiar with them. And Virgil is my poet. Not that I approve of all his theories of cultivation. With all the respect I accord him, there is a great deal to be said on that point; and his plan of breeding in particular will never do—never do! Still, he is delicious, eh? Very well, Monsieur Camors, now you see my little domain—‘mea paupera regna’—the retreat of the sage. Here I live, and live happily, like an old shepherd in the golden age—loved by my neighbors, which is not easy; and venerating the gods, which is perhaps easier. Ah, young sir, as you read Virgil, you will excuse me once more. It was for me he wrote:
‘Fortunate senex, hic inter flumina nota,
Et fontes sacros frigus captabis opacum.’
“And this as well:
‘Fortunatus et ille deos qui novit agrestes,
Panaque, Silvanumque senem!’”
“Nymphasque sorores!” finished Camors, smiling and moving his head slightly in the direction of Madame de Tecle and her daughter, who preceded them.
“Quite to the point. That is pure truth!” cried M. des Rameures, gayly. “Did you hear that, niece?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“And did you understand it, niece?”
“No, uncle.”
“I do not believe you, my dear! I do not believe you!” The old man laughed heartily. “Do not believe her, Monsieur de Camors; women have the faculty of understanding compliments in every language.”