“Oh, no, he only gave me the idea that it would be a good thing not to become like M. de Duras. I saw myself in a flash as I would be twenty years hence, old M. de Rochefort with a painted face, living socially on the tolerance of his friends and mentally on the latest rumour and the cast-off wit of others. Besides, I was always fond of a country life; besides—I have had my fling in Paris, I have spent I don’t know how many thousand francs in four years, and if I go on I will be impoverished, and I can stand many things, Chartres, but I could never stand being your poor man. “I do not mind living on a crust of bread in the least, but I object very strongly to living with the knowledge that I cannot have venison if I want it. I have come from a queer stock, we have always gone the pace, but we have all of us had a grain of commonsense somewhere in our natures to check us in time. “People say I am mad simply because they only see me spending my money in Paris; they do not know in the least that I have a reputation for commonsense on my estates as solid as an oak-tree. My people in the country know me and they respect me, because I know them and will not let myself be cheated. People say I am mad—silly fools—have they never considered the fact that I have always steered clear of politics?” “Oh, oh!” said Chartres; “good heavens, what are you saying?” “That was an accident, an uncharted rock that I struck. I have always steered clear of politics, otherwise I might be like Camus, of whose fate I have just told you—and mind, never, never breathe a word of that even to your pillow—or poor Camille Fontrailles. Well, to return to our subject. I am leaving Paris for another reason, which I will tell to you who are my best friend. I am in love, and the girl whom I am going to make my wife could not live in Paris.” “And why not?” “Because she is a girl of the people; because she has a heart of gold and a soul as pure as the soul of a child, and a power of love simple and indestructible as the love of a dog; because she is a woman who can be faithful in friendliness as a man, because she is a child who will be a child till she dies. All that would be extremely absurd in Paris. But down there in the country, Madame la Comtesse de Rochefort will grow and live in the clear air that nourishes the flowers; she will be respected by people who know the value of worth, and when Monsieur de Rochefort is an old man, he will perhaps see in his grandchildren the strength of a new race and not the vices of our rotten aristocracy.” “Rochefort,” said Chartres, “I do not know whether this is madness or commonsense, I only know that you are talking in a way that surprises me as much as though I were to hear my poodle Pistache talking philosophy.”