“I arrived home but an hour ago;” said he, “and I have already received a homily from Broisfresnay.”

“He writes a great deal,” observed Albert.

“Too much; he consumes himself in ink.  He mentions a lot more of his ridiculous projects and vain hopes, and he mentions a dozen names of men of his own stamp who are his associates.  On my word of honour, they seem to have lost their senses!  They talk of lifting the world, only they want a lever and something to rest it on.  It makes me die with laughter!”

For ten minutes the count continued to discharge a volley of abuse and sarcasm against his best friends, without seeming to see that a great many of their foibles which he ridiculed were also a little his own.

“If,” continued he more seriously,—­“if they only possessed a little confidence in themselves, if they showed the least audacity!  But no! they count upon others to do for them what they ought to do for themselves.  In short, their proceedings are a series of confessions of helplessness, of premature declarations of failure.”

The coffee having been served, the count made a sign, and the servants left the room.

“No,” continued he, “I see but one hope for the French aristocracy, but one plank of salvation, one good little law, establishing the right of primogeniture.”

“You will never obtain it.”

“You think not?  Would you then oppose such a measure, viscount?”

Albert knew by experience what dangerous ground his father was approaching, and remained silent.

“Let us put it, then, that I dream of the impossible!” resumed the count.  “Then let the nobles do their duty.  Let all the younger sons and the daughters of our great families forego their rights, by giving up the entire patrimony to the first-born for five generations, contenting themselves each with a couple of thousand francs a year.  By that means great fortunes can be reconstructed, and families, instead of being divided by a variety of interests, become united by one common desire.”

“Unfortunately,” objected the viscount, “the time is not favorable to such devotedness.”

“I know it, sir,” replied the count quickly; “and in my own house I have the proof of it.  I, your father, have conjured you to give up all idea of marrying the granddaughter of that old fool, the Marchioness d’Arlange.  And all to no purpose; for I have at last been obliged to yield to your wishes.”

“Father—­” Albert commenced.

“It is well,” interrupted the count.  “You have my word; but remember my prediction:  you will strike a fatal blow at our house.  You will be one of the largest proprietors in France; but have half a dozen children, and they will be hardly rich.  If they also have as many, you will probably see your grandchildren in poverty!”

“You put all at the worst, father.”

“Without doubt:  it is the only means of pointing out the danger, and averting the evil.  You talk of your life’s happiness.  What is that?  A true noble thinks of his name above all.  Mademoiselle d’Arlange is very pretty, and very attractive; but she is penniless.  I had found an heiress for you.”