“Ah! ha! you did not expect that kind of accompaniment,” said the Baron, when his gayety had calmed a little; “this is the article that you were obliged to write for the Revue de Paris, is it?  Do you think that I am going to leave you to sing Italian duets with Madame while I am scouring the woods?  You must take me for a very careless husband, Vicomte.  Now, then, right about face!  March!  Do me the kindness to take a gun.  We are going to shoot a few hares in the Corne woods before supper.”

“Monsieur de Bergenheim,” exclaimed the old lady, when her emotion would allow her to speak, “this is indecorous—­vulgar—­the conduct of a common soldier—­of a cannibal!  My head is split open; I am sure to have an awful neuralgia in a quarter of an hour.  It is the conduct of a herdsman.”

“Do not think of your neuralgia, my dear aunt,” replied Christian, whose good-humor seemed aroused by the day’s sport; “you are as fresh as a rosebud—­and Constance shall have some hares’ heads roasted for her supper.”

At this moment a second uproar was heard in the courtyard; a horn was evidently being played by an amateur, accompanied by the confused yelps and barks of a numerous pack of hounds; the whole was mingled with shouts of laughter, the cracking of whips, and clamors of all kinds.  In the midst of this racket, a cry, more piercing than the others, rang out, a cry of agony and despair.

“Constance!” exclaimed Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, in a falsetto voice full of terror; she rushed to one of the windows and all followed her.

The spectacle in the courtyard was as noisy as it was picturesque.  Marillac, seated upon a bench, was blowing upon a trumpet, trying to play the waltz from Robert-le-Diable in a true infernal manner.  At his feet were seven or eight hunters and as many servants encouraging him by their shouts.  The Baron’s pack of hounds, of great renown in the country, was composed of about forty dogs, all branded upon their right thighs with the Bergenheim coat-of-arms.  From time immemorial, the chateau’s dogs had been branded thus with their master’s crest, and Christian, who was a great stickler for old customs, had taken care not to drop this one.  This feudal sign had probably acted upon the morals of the pack, for it was impossible to find, within twenty leagues, a collection of more snarly terriers, dissolute hounds, ugly bloodhounds, or more quarrelsome greyhounds.  They were perfect hunters, but it seemed as if, on account of their being dogs of quality, all vices were permitted them.

In the midst of this horde, without respect for law or order, the unfortunate Constance had found herself after crossing the ante-chamber, vestibule, and outside steps, still pursued by the sounds from Christian’s huge horn.  An honest merchant surprised at the turn of the road by a band of robbers would not have been greeted any better than the poodle was at the moment she darted into the yard.  It may have been