In the meantime, Paul, the hunting-party were crowding tumultuously into the court-yard of the abbey; I could hear the stamping of the horses’ feet, the voices of the riders, and even the sound of their boots on the flagging, which proved that some of them had alighted and were threatening me with a last assault.  I started up with a gesture of rage, and I glanced at my pistols.  Fortunately, after a few minutes’ conversation with the miller, the hunters withdrew, not without giving me to understand that, if they had formed a better opinion of my character, they went away with a most amusing idea of the eccentricity of my disposition.

Such is, my dear friend, a faithful historical account of that unlucky day, during which I covered myself frankly, and from head to foot, with a species of humiliation to which any Frenchman would prefer that of crime.  I have, at this moment, the satisfaction of knowing that I am in a neighboring chateau, in the midst of a gathering of brilliant men and lovely young women, an inexhaustible subject for jokes.  I feel, moreover, since my flank movement (as it is customary in war to call precipitate retreats), that I have lost something of my dignity in my own eyes, and I cannot conceal to myself, besides, that I am far from enjoying the same consideration on the part of my rustic hosts.

In presence of a situation so seriously compromised, it became necessary to hold council; after a brief deliberation, I rejected far, far from me, as puerile and pusillanimous, the project suggested to me by my vanity at bay, that of giving up my lodgings, and even of leaving the district entirely.  I made up my mind to pursue philosophically the course of my labors and my pleasures, to show a soul superior to circumstances, and in short, to give to the Amazons, the centaurs, and the millers the fine spectacle of the wise man in adversity.

[A] Charles VI., King of France, became demented in consequence of his horse being stopped, during a hunt in the forest of Mans, by what seemed to him a supernatural being.—­(TRANS.)

CHAPTER III.

The marquis de Malouet.

Malouet, 20th September.

I have just received your letter.  You belong to the true breed of Monomotapa friends, Paul.  But what puerility!  And such is the case of your sudden return!  A trifle, a silly nightmare which for two successive nights caused you to hear the sound of my voice calling on you for help!  Ah! bitter fruits of the wretched German cuisine!  Really, Paul, you are foolish!  And yet, you tell me things that move me to tears.  I cannot answer you as I would like to.  My heart is tender, but my speech is dry.  I have never been able to tell any one, “I love you!” There is a jealous fiend who checks on my lips every word of affection, and imparts to it a tone of irony.  But, thank God, you know me!