She checked herself, and motioned to a chair.

“Sit down, monsieur.  Pardon me that I have kept you standing.”

I placed the chair for her, but she declined it, and we continued to face each other.

“Madame,” I said, “you seem to blame me for something.  What have I done?”

“Nothing, monsieur.”

“I will now ask your advice.  What do you want me to do that I have not done?”

“Monsieur, you are doing exactly what I want you to do.”

“Then you are not displeased with me?”

“I am more pleased with you every time I see you.  Your advice is good.  I cannot go in midwinter.”

“Are you sure your cousin wanted you to make this journey?”

“The notary says so in this letter.  Philippe died in the farm-house of one of our peasants, and the new masters could not refuse him burial in the church where De Ferriers have lain for hundreds of years.  He was more fortunate than my father.”

This interview with Madame de Ferrier in which I cut so poor a figure, singularly influenced me.  It made me restless, as if something had entered my blood.  In January the real spring begins, for then sap starts, and the lichens seem to quicken.  I felt I was young, and rose up against lessons all day long and part of the night.  I rushed in haste to the woods or the frozen lake, and wanted to do mighty deeds without knowing what to undertake.  More than anything else I wanted friends of my own age.  To see Doctor Chantry dozing and hear him grumbling, no longer remained endurable; for he reminded me that my glad days were due and I was not receiving them.  Worse than that, instead of proving grateful for all his services, I became intolerant of his opinion.

“De Chaumont will marry her,” he said when he heard of Madame de Ferrier’s widowhood.  “She will never be obliged to sue to the Bonapartes.  The count is as fond of her as he is of his daughter.”

“Must a woman marry a succession of fathers?”—­I wanted to know.

My master pointed out that the count was a very well favored and youthful looking man.  His marriage to Madame de Ferrier became even more distasteful.  She and her poppet were complete by themselves.  Wedding her to any one was casting indignity upon her.

Annabel de Chaumont was a countess and Madame de Ferrier was a marquise.  These names, I understood, meant that they were ladies to be served and protected.  De Chaumont’s daughter was served and protected, and as far as he was allowed to do so, he served and protected the daughter of his fellow countryman.

“But the pride of emigres,” Doctor Chantry said, “was an old story in the De Chaumont household.  There were some Saint-Michels who lived in a cabin, strictly on their own means, refusing the count’s help, yet they had followed him to Le Rayville in Castorland.  Madame de Ferrier lived where her husband had placed her, in a wing of De Chaumont’s house, refusing to be waited on by anybody but Ernestine, paying what her keeping cost; when she was a welcome guest.”