M. d'Egmont uttered an exclamation of delight on seeing his young friend, whom he loved as a son. Although, during the thirty years that he had lived on Captain D'Haberville's estate, he had constantly refused to take up his abode at the manor house, he yet was a frequent visitor there, often remaining a week at a time when there were no strangers present. Without actually shunning society, he had suffered too much in his relations with men of his own class to be able to mingle cordially in their enjoyments.
Although poor, M. d'Egmont was able to do a great deal of good. He comforted the afflicted; he visited the sick, whom he healed with herbs whose virtues were revealed to him by his knowledge of botany; and if his alms-giving was not lavish, it was accompanied by such sympathy and tact that it was none the less appreciated by the poor, who had come to know him by no other title than that of le bon gentilhomme.
When D'Egmont and his young friend entered the house, André set before them a dish of fine trout and a plate of broiled pigeons, garnished with chives.
"It is a frugal supper, indeed," said D'Egmont, "I caught the trout myself in yonder brook, about an hour ago, and André bagged the doves this morning at sunrise, in yonder dead tree, half a gunshot from the cottage. You see that, without being a seigneur, I have a fish-pond and dove-cote on my estate. Now for a salad of lettuce with cream, a bowl of raspberries, a bottle of wine—and there is your supper, friend Jules."
"And never fish-pond and dove-cote supplied better meal to a hungry hunter," exclaimed Jules.
The meal was a cheerful one, for M. d'Egmont seemed to have recovered something of the gayety of his youth. His conversation was no less instructive than amusing; for, although he had mingled much with men in his early days, he had found in study a refuge from his unhappiness.
"How do you like this wine?" said he to Jules, who was eating like a hungry wolf, and had already quaffed several bumpers.
"It is capital, upon my word."
"You are a connoisseur, my friend," went on M. d'Egmont. "If it is true that wine and men improve with age, that wine must indeed be excellent; and as for me, I must be approaching perfection, for I am very nearly ninety."