from which, as they used to say of the Comte d’Artois, only witty and urbane words proceed.  His cheeks, sloping rather than foolishly rounded to the chin, were in keeping with his spare frame, thin legs, and plump hands.  The strangulation cravat at his throat was of the kind which every marquis wears in all the portraits which adorn eighteenth century literature; it is common alike to Saint-Preux and to Lovelace, to the elegant Montesquieu’s heroes and to Diderot’s homespun characters (see the first editions of those writers’ works).

The Marquis always wore a white, gold-embroidered, high waistcoat, with the red ribbon of a commander of the Order of St. Louis blazing upon his breast; and a blue coat with wide skirts, and fleur-de-lys on the flaps, which were turned back—­an odd costume which the King had adopted.  But the Marquis could not bring himself to give up the Frenchman’s knee-breeches nor yet the white silk stockings or the buckles at the knees.  After six o’clock in the evening he appeared in full dress.

He read no newspapers but the Quotidienne and the Gazette de France, two journals accused by the Constitutional press of obscurantist views and uncounted “monarchical and religious” enormities; while the Marquis d’Esgrignon, on the other hand, found heresies and revolutionary doctrines in every issue.  No matter to what extremes the organs of this or that opinion may go, they will never go quite far enough to please the purists on their own side; even as the portrayer of this magnificent personage is pretty certain to be accused of exaggeration, whereas he has done his best to soften down some of the cruder tones and dim the more startling tints of the original.

The Marquis d’Esgrignon rested his elbows on his knees and leant his head on his hands.  During his meditations Mlle. Armande and the Chevalier looked at one another without uttering the thoughts in their minds.  Was he pained by the discovery that his son’s future must depend upon his sometime land steward?  Was he doubtful of the reception awaiting the young Count?  Did he regret that he had made no preparation for launching his heir into that brilliant world of court?  Poverty had kept him in the depths of his province; how should he have appeared at court?  He sighed heavily as he raised his head.

That sigh, in those days, came from the real aristocracy all over France; from the loyal provincial noblesse, consigned to neglect with most of those who had drawn sword and braved the storm for the cause.

“What have the Princes done for the du Guenics, or the Fontaines, or the Bauvans, who never submitted?” he muttered to himself.  “They fling miserable pensions to the men who fought most bravely, and give them a royal lieutenancy in a fortress somewhere on the outskirts of the kingdom.”

Evidently the Marquis doubted the reigning dynasty.  Mlle. d’Esgrignon was trying to reassure her brother as to the prospects of the journey, when a step outside on the dry narrow footway gave them notice of Chesnel’s coming.  In another moment Chesnel appeared; Josephin, the Count’s gray-aired valet, admitted the notary without announcing him.