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. Upon the threshold of the parsonage, Bibiaine, the old housekeeper, was standing. She knew who these guests must be, for the cure’s servants always know what is going on. “Monsieur has not yet returned from church,” she said, in response to the duke’s inquiry; “but if the gentlemen wish to wait, it will not be long before he comes, for the poor, dear man has not breakfasted yet.” “Let us go in,” the duke said to his son. And guided by the housekeeper, they entered a sort of drawing-room, where the table was spread. M. de Sairmeuse took an inventory of the apartment in a single glance. The habits of a house reveal those of its master. This was clean, poor, and bare. The walls were whitewashed; a dozen chairs composed the entire furniture; upon the table, laid with monastic simplicity, were only tin dishes. This was either the abode of an ambitious man or a saint.