"I am more surprised," said Emile, mechanically helping himself to sugar, "that you do not realize how solemn and impressive your solitude, your gravity, and I will venture to add, your melancholy, must be to a child like myself." "Do I frighten you?" said Monsieur de Boisguilbault with a deep sigh. "You frighten me terribly, monsieur le marquis, I frankly admit; but do not take my ingenuousness in bad part, for it is no less certain that I am impelled by an entirely contrary sentiment of irresistible attraction, to overcome that sentiment of fear." "That is strange," said the marquis, "very strange: pray explain it to me." "It is very simple. As a young man of my age goes about seeking the solution of his own future in the present or in the past of men of maturer years, it terrifies him to see an invincible sadness and a dumb but profound distaste for life, written upon austere brows." "Yes, that is why my external appearance repels you. Do not be afraid to say it. You are not the first and I expected it." "Repel is not the word, since, notwithstanding the sort of magnetic stupor into which you cast me, I am drawn toward you by a peculiar attraction." "Peculiar!--aye, very peculiar, and you are the more eccentric of us two. I was struck, the first moment I saw you, by the manifest dissimilarity of your character to that of the men whom I knew in my younger days." "And was that impression unfavorable to me, monsieur le marquis?" "Quite the contrary," replied Monsieur de Boisguilbault in that voice, utterly without inflection, which made it impossible to estimate the bearing of his replies. "Martin," he added, leaning toward his old servant who bent himself double to hear him, "you can take all this away. Are there any workmen left in the park?" "No, monsieur le marquis, nobody." "In that case, close the gate when you go away." Emile remained alone with his host in the solitude of the vast park. The marquis took his arm and led him to a seat on the cliffs above the chalet, where there was a lovely view. The sun, as it sank toward the horizon, projected the shadows of the tall poplars from one side to the other of the ravine, like a dark curtain intersected by brilliant streaks. The violet rays shot up into an opal-hued sky, above an ocean of dark verdure; and as the sounds of toil in the fields died gradually away, the voice of the mountain streams and the plaintive note of the turtle doves could be heard more distinctly. It was a magnificent evening, and young Cardonnet, turning his eyes and thoughts upon the distant hills of Châteaubrun, fell into a pleasant reverie. He was reflecting that he might venture to indulge in that mental recreation before making another assault, when his adversary suddenly made an unexpected sortie and broke the silence.