CHAPTER VI.
THE COUNT DE PUYMANDOUR.
Since the death of the Duchess of Champdoce the greater portion of the Chateau had been closed, but the reception rooms were always ready to be used at a very short notice.
The dining-room was a really magnificent apartment.

There were massive buffets of carved oak, black with age, ornamented with brass mountings.
The shelves groaned beneath their load of goblets and salvers of the brightest silver, engraved with the haughty armorial bearings of the house of Champdoce.
Standing near one of the windows, Norbert saw a man, stout, robust, bald and red-faced, wearing a mustache and slight beard.

His clothes were evidently made by a first-rate tailor, but his appearance was utterly commonplace.
"This is my son," said the Duke, "the Marquis de Champdoce.

Marquis, let me introduce you to the Count de Puymandour." This was the first time that his father had ever addressed Norbert by his title, and he was greatly surprised.

The great clock in the outer hall, which had not been going for fifteen years, now struck, and instantly a butler appeared, bearing a massive silver soup tureen, which he placed on the table, announcing solemnly that his Grace was served, and the little party at once seated themselves.