“Monsieur,” he said, “allow me to return thanks to your talent; we shall be indebted to it, I feel quite sure, for the preservation of these ruins, which are the ornament of our district.”

I abandoned at once my reserve, which could no longer be anything but childish sulkiness, and I replied, as I thought I should, that he was appreciating with too much indulgence a mere amateur’s sketch; that I certainly had the greatest desire of saving these beautiful ruins, but that the most important part of my work threatened to remain quite insignificant, for want of historical information which I had vainly tried to find in the archives of the county-seat.

“Parbleu, monsieur,” rejoined the horseman, “you please me greatly.  I have in my library a large proportion of the archives of the abbey.  Come and consult them at your leisure.  I shall feel grateful to you for doing so.”

I thanked him with some embarrassment.  I regretted not to have known it sooner.  I feared being recalled to Paris by a letter which I was expecting this very day.  Nevertheless, I had risen to make this answer, the ill grace of which I strove to attenuate by the courteousness of my attitude.  At the same time, I formed a clearer idea of my interlocutor; he was a handsome old man, with broad shoulders, who seemed to carry with ease the weight of some sixty winters, and whose bright blue eyes expressed the kindliest good feeling.

“Come! come!” he exclaimed, “let us speak frankly.  You feel some repugnance at mingling with that band of hare-brained scamps you see yonder, and whom I tried in vain yesterday to keep out of a silly affair, for which I now beg to tender you my sincere apologies.  My name is the Marquis de Malouet, sir.  After all, you went off with the honors of the day.  They wished to see you; you did not wish to be seen.  You carried your point.  What else can you ask?”

I could not help laughing on hearing such a favorable interpretation of my unlucky scrape.

“You laugh!” rejoined the old marquis; “bravo! we’ll soon come to an understanding, then.  Now, what’s to prevent your coming to spend a few days at my house?  My wife has requested me to invite you; she has heard in detail all your annoyances of yesterday.  She has an angel’s disposition, my wife.  She is no longer young, always ill; a mere breath; but she is an angel.  I’ll locate you in the library—­you’ll live like a hermit, if you like.  Mon Dieu!  I see it all, I tell you; these madcaps of mine frighten you; you are a serious man; I know all about that sort of disposition!  Well! you’ll find congenial company—­my wife is full of sense; I am no fool myself.  I am fond of exercise; in fact, it is indispensable to my health—­but you must not take me for a brute!  The devil! not at all!  I’ll astonish you.  You must be fond of whist; we’ll have a game together; you must like to live well—­delicately, I mean, as it is proper and suitable for a man of taste and intelligence.