The story made an impression.  No one spoke at first.  Then some one risked the opinion.  “No doubt they do things like that in Hungary or Bohemia, or where he reigns.  You wouldn’t see it here,” he added, innocently.

“He’s from Austria,” Tudor corrected.

“Yes,” muttered Crillon, “but whether he’s Austrian or whether he’s Bohemian or Hungarian, he’s a grandee, so he’s got the right to do what he likes, eh?”

Eudo looked as if he would intervene at this point and was seeking words. (Not long before that he had had the queer notion of sheltering and nursing a crippled hind that had escaped from a previous run, and his act had given great displeasure in high places.) So as soon as he opened his mouth we made him shut it.  The idea of Eudo in judgment on princes!

And the rest lowered their heads and nodded and murmured, “Yes, he’s a grandee.”

And the little phrase spread abroad, timidly and obscurely.

* * * * * *

When All Saints’ Day came round, many of the distinguished visitors at the castle were still there.  Every year that festival gives us occasion for an historical ceremony on the grand scale.  At two o’clock all the townsfolk that matter gather with bunches of flowers on the esplanade or in front of the cemetery half-way up Chestnut Hill, for the ceremony and an open air service.

Early in the afternoon I betook myself with Marie to the scene.  I put on a fancy waistcoat of black and white check and my new patent leather boots, which make me look at them.  It is fine weather on this Sunday of Sundays, and the bells are ringing.  Everywhere the hurrying crowd climbs the hill—­peasants in flat caps, working families in their best clothes, young girls with faces white and glossy as the bridal satin which is the color of their thoughts, young men carrying jars of flowers.  All these appear on the esplanade, where graying lime trees are also in assembly.  Children are sitting on the ground.

Monsieur Joseph Boneas, in black, with his supremely distinguished air, goes by holding his mother’s arm.  I bow deeply to them.  He points at the unfolding spectacle as he passes and says, “It is our race’s festival.”

The words made me look more seriously at the scene before my eyes—­all this tranquil and contemplative stir in the heart of festive nature.  Reflection and the vexations of my life have mellowed my mind.  The idea at last becomes clear in my brain of an entirety, an immense multitude in space, and infinite in time, a multitude of which I am an integral part, which has shaped me in its image, which continues to keep me like it, and carries me along its control; my own people.

Baroness Grille, in the riding habit that she almost always wears when mixing with the people, is standing near the imposing entry to the cemetery.  Monsieur the Marquis of Monthyon is holding aloft his stately presence, his handsome and energetic face.  Solid and sporting, with dazzling shirt cuffs and fine ebon-black shoes, he parades a smile.  There is an M.P. too, a former Minister, very assiduous, who chats with the old duke.  There are the Messrs. Gozlan and famous people whose names one does not know.  Members of the Institute of the great learned associations, or people fabulously wealthy.