In a word, the count was the flattered portrait of his class; the marchioness its caricature.  It should be added, that M. de Commarin knew how to divest himself of his crushing urbanity in the company of his equals.  There he recovered his true character, haughty, self-sufficient, and intractable, enduring contradiction pretty much as a wild horse the application of the spur.  In his own house, he was a despot.

Perceiving his father, Albert advanced towards him.  They shook hands and embraced with an air as noble as ceremonious, and, in less than a minute, had exchanged all the news that had transpired during the count’s absence.  Then only did M. de Commarin perceive the alteration in his son’s face.

“You are unwell, viscount,” said he.

“Oh, no, sir,” answered Albert, laconically.

The count uttered “Ah!” accompanied by a certain movement of the head, which, with him, expressed perfect incredulity; then, turning to his servant, he gave him some orders briefly.

“Now,” resumed he, “let us go quickly to the house.  I am in haste to feel at home; and I am hungry, having had nothing to-day, but some detestable broth, at I know not what way station.”

M. de Commarin had returned to Paris in a very bad temper, his journey to Austria had not brought the results he had hoped for.  To crown his dissatisfaction, he had rested, on his homeward way, at the chateau of an old friend, with whom he had had so violent a discussion that they had parted without shaking hands.  The count was hardly seated in his carriage before he entered upon the subject of this disagreement.

“I have quarrelled with the Duke de Sairmeuse,” said he to his son.

“That seems to me to happen whenever you meet,” answered Albert, without intending any raillery.

“True,” said the count:  “but this is serious.  I passed four days at his country-seat, in a state of inconceivable exasperation.  He has entirely forfeited my esteem.  Sairmeuse has sold his estate of Gondresy, one of the finest in the north of France.  He has cut down the timber, and put up to auction the old chateau, a princely dwelling, which is to be converted into a sugar refinery; all this for the purpose, as he says, of raising money to increase his income!”

“And was that the cause of your rupture?” inquired Albert, without much surprise.

“Certainly it was!  Do you not think it a sufficient one?”

“But, sir, you know the duke has a large family, and is far from rich.”

“What of that?  A French noble who sells his land commits an unworthy act.  He is guilty of treason against his order!”

“Oh, sir,” said Albert, deprecatingly.