"Why, he could have attained to anything. A Nideck! One of the most illustrious families of Germany! Think of that, monsieur! He had only to choose; he might have been a minister or a field-marshal. But no! In his youth he retired from political life. With the exception of a campaign that he conducted in France, at the head of a regiment which he raised by his own exertions—with this exception, he has always lived far from noise and strife, simple and almost unknown, only interesting himself in his hunting."
These details were of the greatest interest to me. The conversation was taking, of its own accord, the direction that I most wished, and I resolved to profit by my opportunity.
"The Count has never had any great passions in his life, then?" I asked.
"None, monsieur; and that is the pity, for noble passions make the renown of great families. It is a misfortune for the member of a noble race to be devoid of ambition. He allows his family to degenerate. I could cite many examples in proof of what I say. That which would be the pride of the tradesman's family, would be the ruin of the illustrious."
I was amazed; all my speculations regarding the Count's past life were fast being disproved.
"However, the Count has met with many reverses, has he not?"
"He has lost his wife?"
"Yes, you are right; his wife was an angel. He married her for love; she was a daughter of one the oldest and noblest families of Alsace, but ruined by the Revolution. The Countess Odette was her husband's sole happiness. She died of a lingering illness that lasted over the space of five years; every means was resorted to to save her life. They travelled together in Italy, but she returned worse than she went, and succumbed some three weeks after their return. The Count came near dying himself of a broken heart. For two years he shut himself up and would see nobody. His dogs and horses were neglected. Time at length calmed his grief, but there has ever been something here." (The dwarf laid his finger on his heart.) "You understand; it is a bleeding wound. Old wounds pain us in change of weather, and old griefs, too, when the flowers spring up above the tomb, and in autumn when the dead leaves cover the ground. The Count has never wished to marry again; his daughter is the sole object of his affection."
"So this marriage was always a happy one?"