“He, the head of the house of Chargeboeuf!” said the Marquis de Simeuse.  “A man who bears the motto Adsit fortior, the noblest of warcries!”

“We are no longer in the days of Saint-Louis,” said the younger Simeuse.

“But ‘We die singing,’” said the countess.  “The cry of the five young girls of my house is mine!”

“And ours, ‘Cy meurs,’” said the elder Simeuse.  “Therefore, no quarter, I say; for, on reflection, we shall find that our relative had pondered well what he told us—­Gondreville to be the title of a Malin!”

“And his seat!” said the younger.

“Mansart designed it for noble stock, and the populace will get their children in it!” exclaimed the elder.

“If that were to come to pass, I’d rather see Gondreville in ashes!” cried Mademoiselle Cinq-Cygne.

One of the villagers, who had entered the grounds to examine a calf Monsieur d’Hauteserre was trying to sell him, overheard these words as he came from the cow-sheds.

“Let us go in,” said Laurence, laughing; “this is very imprudent; we are giving the old marquis a right to blame us.  My poor Michu,” she added, as she entered the salon, “I had forgotten your adventure; as we are not in the odor of sanctity in these parts you must be careful not to compromise us in future.  Have you any other peccadilloes on your conscience?”

“I blame myself for not having killed the murderer of my old masters before I came to the rescue of my present ones—­”

“Michu!” said the abbe in a warning tone.

“But I’ll not leave the country,” Michu continued, paying no heed to the abbe’s exclamation, “till I am certain you are safe.  I see fellows roaming about here whom I distrust.  The last time we hunted in the forest, that keeper who took my place at Gondreville came to me and asked if we supposed we were on our own property.  ‘Ho! my lad,’ I said, ’we can’t get rid in two weeks of ideas we’ve had for centuries.’”

“You did wrong, Michu,” said the Marquis de Simeuse, smiling with satisfaction.

“What answer did he make?” asked Monsieur d’Hauteserre.

“He said he would inform the senator of our claims,” replied Michu.

“Comte de Gondreville!” repeated the elder Simeuse; “what a masquerade!  But after all, they say ‘your Majesty’ to Bonaparte!”

“And to the Grand Duc de Berg, ‘your Highness!’” said the abbe.

“Who is he?” asked the Marquis de Simeuse.

“Murat, Napoleon’s brother-in-law,” replied old d’Hauteserre.

“Delightful!” remarked Mademoiselle de Cinq-Cygne.  “Do they also say ‘your Majesty’ to the widow of Beauharnais?”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” said the abbe.

“We ought to go to Paris and see it all,” cried Laurence.

“Alas, mademoiselle,” said Michu, “I was there to put Francois at school, and I swear to you there’s no joking with what they call the Imperial Guard.  If the rest of the army are like them, the thing may last longer than we.”