the statements of the marquis were fully
confirmed: with the addition that M. de Vauxmesnil
had been a peer of France under the Orleans
reign, and enjoyed the post of senator under the
existing government.

"Ma foi! a superior man," added the young
attaché, with one of those shrugs that say so
much; "a man eminent in every sense of the
word, but not of our century. There is no love
lost between the government and M. de
Vauxmesnil."

The political squabbles of France were no
concern of mine, and I gladly closed with the
liberal proposals of the marquis. During the
journey to his country seat, which was on the
banks of the Rhône, a short distance below
Lyons, I had ample opportunity for estimating
the character of my employer. He was a man
who had had the irreparable misfortune to be
born some hundred years too late, for his
sympathies and tastes were wholly absorbed in a
bygone state of things, and his life had been spent
in useless struggles to put back the hands of
the clock of time. He was not precisely a bad
man, but he contrived to do more harm and to
provoke more antipathies than many who were worse
than himself. He treated me well and civilly,
but I could see that in his ideas there was a
great gulf between us, never to be bridged, and
that a Brahmin could as easily believe a Sudra
his equal as the Marquis de Vauxmesnil could
regard Edwin Kirby in that light. Once or twice
I had my doubts whether I were doing wisely in
burying myself in a lonely château in a foreign
country; in turning my back, so to speak, on
the nineteenth century, and becoming the
stipendiary of an obstinate grand seigneur. But
my prospects in England had been dark enough,
and I had little choice.

"Welcome, M. Kirby," said the marquis, at
last; "welcome to Rochaigue!"

The train had just come jarringly to a halt at
a small station. On the right hand, foamed the
Rhône; on the left, shot up a sharp and jagged
rock, rising to a point like the spire of a Gothic
cathedral; and on a platform of this rock stood
the castle—a very imposing structure, especially
at a first glance. The village, with its grey
stone houses and avenue of walnut-trees, nestled
below; and the well-wooded and broken country
on one bank, and the green meadows on the
other, made up a pleasant prospect.

We quitted the train, and reclaimed our
luggage. A carriage was waiting: not, as I had
half expected, a coach and six, with triple file
of powdered lacqueys: but one of those roomy
shapeless vehicles, fitted with a light roof, and
drawn by two long-tailed La Perche nags,
commonly used by rich residents in the south. The
coachman, in laced coat and flat cap, clambered
on to a little pyramid of our portmanteaus and
hat-boxes; the marquis's valet, who had been
with him to England, climbed up beside him,
and sat more comfortably on the box; the whip
cracked, and we set off at a round trot. As we
passed through the village many hats and caps
flew off in honour of the rich proprietor, but I
saw few or no smiles of genuine welcome. M.
le Vauxmesnil returned all these salutes affably.

"I am bon prince," he said, with one of his
faint smiles. "So long as no idea-mongers come
between us, my tenants and I get on reasonably
well. What do you think of Rochaigue?"

"Splendid!" was my involuntary exclamaion.
Indeed, from the point to which we had
attained in our winding ascent, the old castle
looked grand and majestic. On a nearer
approach I could see that much of this splendour
faded into nothing. Great part of the building
was in ruins—a mere shell; the towers were
broken, the walls breached, and the white modern
house that clung to the shattered pile appeared
smaller than it really was by contrast with its
neighbour.

The marquis smiled bitterly as he observed
my look of unconscious disappointment.

"Yes," said he, "Rochaigue has seen its best
days, like its master. Yonder, where you see
the burnt beams, stood the gallery where the
king—pshaw! what do you care for such old-
world memories, monsieur? I dare say you
would rather see a good dinner, now, than all
the ruins on earth. So should I have thought,
at your age. We are arrived."

My life at the château was somewhat
monotonous, but decidedly not an unhappy one. The
marquise, with the little boy, my pupil, and a
sister of M. de Vauxmesuil, a quiet prim person,
made up the family circle. Madame de
Vauxmesnil was much younger than her
husband—a pale gentle woman, with fair hair and
kind grey eyes that had something mournful
and timid in them. Very likely the match
between those two had been made up, as French
marriages often are, by busy relatives and
without much regard for the wishes and
inclinations of poor Mademoiselle Louise. She
was very obedient and subdued, not over
cheerful, seldom well. The child, on the other hand,
was really a noble little fellow, with chesnut
hair curling in heavy natural rings, a clear
healthy red and white complexion, and the
frankest blue eyes in the world. A fine little
fellow, with good abilities, so far as I could
judge, and giving promise of a high spirit and
a sweet temper—rare but enviable
combination. It is not surprising that the little Henri
—his father's christian names were Gaston
Pierre Louis Armand Henri, after the fashion
of the Faubourg St. Germain—was the idol of
his parents, and that he stood as fair a chance of
being spoiled as ever boy did.

There are some natures, however, which even
flattery and indulgence seem unable to corrupt,
and such was that of my little pupil the tiny
viscount, as he had been called while still in
the cradle: the eldest son of the Marquis de
Vauxmesnil possessing that rank. His father
wished his education to be conducted on as
nearly as possible the system that had been in
vogue before the Revolution. He did not, to
be sure, insist upon my teaching the young
heir the history of his native land through the
medium of that veracious chronicle of the Abbé