All was still for a moment.  Then in the profound evening silence of the countryside the clear, aged voice of the Chevalier was heard trembling slightly:  “Monsieur!  That’s an indignity.”

It was his first thought.  The girl born during his exile, the posthumous daughter of his poor brother murdered by a band of Jacobins, had grown since his return very dear to his old heart, which had been starving on mere memories of affection for so many years.  “It is an inconceivable thing, I say!  A man settles such affairs before he thinks of asking for a young girl’s hand.  Why!  If you had forgotten for ten days longer, you would have been married before your memory returned to you.  In my time men did not forget such things—­nor yet what is due to the feelings of an innocent young woman.  If I did not respect them myself, I would qualify your conduct in a way which you would not like.”

General D’Hubert relieved himself frankly by a groan.  “Don’t let that consideration prevent you.  You run no risk of offending her mortally.”

But the old man paid no attention to this lover’s nonsense.  It’s doubtful whether he even heard.  “What is it?” he asked.  “What’s the nature of . . . ?” “Call it a youthful folly, Monsieur le Chevalier.  An inconceivable, incredible result of . . .”  He stopped short.  “He will never believe the story,” he thought.  “He will only think I am taking him for a fool, and get offended.”  General D’Hubert spoke up again:  “Yes, originating in youthful folly, it has become . . .”

The Chevalier interrupted:  “Well, then it must be arranged.”

“Arranged?”

“Yes, no matter at what cost to your amour propre.  You should have remembered you were engaged.  You forgot that, too, I suppose.  And then you go and forget your quarrel.  It’s the most hopeless exhibition of levity I ever heard of.”

“Good heavens, Monsieur!  You don’t imagine I have been picking up this quarrel last time I was in Paris, or anything of the sort, do you?”

“Eh!  What matters the precise date of your insane conduct,” exclaimed the Chevalier, testily.  “The principal thing is to arrange it.”

Noticing General D’Hubert getting restive and trying to place a word, the old emigre raised his hand, and added with dignity, “I’ve been a soldier, too.  I would never dare suggest a doubtful step to the man whose name my niece is to bear.  I tell you that entre galants hommes an affair can always be arranged.”

“But saperiotte, Monsieur le Chevalier, it’s fifteen or sixteen years ago.  I was a lieutenant of hussars then.”

The old Chevalier seemed confounded by the vehemently despairing tone of this information.  “You were a lieutenant of hussars sixteen years ago,” he mumbled in a dazed manner.

“Why, yes!  You did not suppose I was made a general in my cradle like a royal prince.”

In the deepening purple twilight of the fields spread with vine leaves, backed by a low band of sombre crimson in the west, the voice of the old ex-officer in the army of the Princes sounded collected, punctiliously civil.