One of them--a chevalier of St.Louis--had received a bayonet thrust through the centre in the riotous times of the Revolution; but he still smiled at Camors, and sniffed at a flower, despite the daylight shining through him.
Camors finished his inspection, thinking to himself they were a highly respectable set of ancestors, but not worth fifteen francs apiece.

The housekeeper had passed half the previous night in slaughtering various dwellers in the poultry-yard; and the results of the sacrifice now successively appeared, swimming in butter.

Happily, however, the fatherly kindness of the General had despatched a hamper of provisions from Campvallon, and a few slices of pate, accompanied by sundry glasses of Chateau-Yquem helped the Count to combat the dreary sadness with which his change of residence, solitude, the night, and the smoke of his candles, all conspired to oppress him.
Regaining his usual good spirits, which had deserted him for a moment, he tried to draw out the old steward, who was waiting on him.

He strove to glean from him some information of the Des Rameures; but the old servant, like every Norman peasant, held it as a tenet of faith that he who gave a plain answer to any question was a dishonored man.

With all possible respect he let Camors understand plainly that he was not to be deceived by his affected ignorance into any belief that M.le Comte did not know a great deal better than he who and what M.des Rameures was--where he lived, and what he did; that M.le Comte was his master, and as such was entitled to his respect, but that he was nevertheless a Parisian, and--as M.des Rameures said--all Parisians were jesters.
Camors, who had taken an oath never to get angry, kept it now; drew from the General's old cognac a fresh supply of patience, lighted a cigar, and left the room.
For a few moments he leaned over the balustrade of the terrace and looked around.