“Well, then, this Monsieur Brugnon is like his brothers Reginald, Garrick, and Geoffrey in all respects save one; unfortunately, the most important one of all.”
“What is it? Why have I been kept in ignorance of this, since it is evidently a family affair? What is this difference of such vital importance?”
“His color.”
Mistress Geoffrey sank back into her furry nest, her expression of lively curiosity and irritation instantly effaced by one of bland indifference.
“I see. Why does he not remain in Europe? He is a fool to come here.”
“So he is,—but he does not know it. He wrote to his father, the Governor, your father-in-law and my cousin, to say that since the abdication of the Emperor and the enforced residence of Prince Eugène in Vienna, he revolts from the service of a lackey at court after the activity of the battlefield, and now desires to see his own people once more and his home—the home of his childhood, the plantation, the other Court hardly less celebrated than—”
“Yes, yes, I know,” exclaimed Nadège hastily, “named for the English estate of the Granthams near Twickenham, Middlesex, which contains ‘fourteen hundred acres of land, and gardens, fishponds, hedges, terraces and fountains unsurpassed by anything in the South.’ My memory, you see, is excellent.”
“You have been reading the family annals of late?”
“Oh, no; it was not necessary! Tell me, cousin, is this petite histoire generally known?”
“Yes: the Governor was much censured for sending the boy to France, and his rapid promotion has been a sore on the foot of those who will tread him in the very mire when he comes to see his own people, poor devil.”