“Nonsense!  As soon as we assert ourselves, all these rascals, whose rebellion alarms you, will quietly sink out of sight.”

Such was really his opinion.

On the way from Montaignac to Sairmeuse, the duke, comfortably ensconced in his berlin, unfolded his theories for the benefit of his son.

“The King has been poorly advised,” he said, in conclusion.  “Besides, I am disposed to believe that he inclines too much to Jacobinism.  If he would listen to my advice, he would make use of the twelve hundred thousand soldiers which our friends have placed at his disposal, to bring his subjects to a sense of their duty.  Twelve hundred thousand bayonets have far more eloquence than the articles of a charter.”

He continued his remarks on this subject until the carriage approached Sairmeuse.

Though but little given to sentiment, he was really affected by the sight of the country in which he was born—­where he had played as a child, and of which he had heard nothing since the death of his aunt.

Everything was changed:  still the outlines of the landscape remained the same; the valley of the Oiselle was as bright and laughing as in days gone by.

“I recognize it!” he exclaimed, with a delight that made him forget politics.  “I recognize it!”

Soon the changes became more striking.

The carriage entered Sairmeuse, and rattled over the stones of the only street in the village.

This street, in former years, had been unpaved, and had always been rendered impassable by wet weather.

“Ah, ha!” murmured the duke, “this is an improvement!”

It was not long before he noticed others.  The dilapidated, thatched hovels had given place to pretty and comfortable white cottages with green blinds, and a vine hanging gracefully over the door.

As the carriage passed the public square in front of the church, Martial observed the groups of peasants who were still talking there.

“What do you think of all these peasants?” he inquired of his father.  “Do they have the appearance of people who are preparing a triumphal reception for their old masters?”

M. de Sairmeuse shrugged his shoulders.  He was not the man to renounce an illusion for such a trifle.

“They do not know that I am in this post-chaise,” he replied.  “When they know——­”

Shouts of “Vive Monsieur le Duc de Sairmeuse!” interrupted him.

“Do you hear that, Marquis?” he exclaimed.

And pleased by these cries that proved him in the right, he leaned from the carriage-window, waving his hand to the honest Chupin family, who were running after the vehicle with noisy shouts.

The old rascal, his wife, and his children, all possessed powerful voices; and it was not strange that the duke believed the whole village was welcoming him.  He was convinced of it; and when the berlin stopped before the house of the cure, M. de Sairmeuse was persuaded that the prestige of the nobility was greater than ever.