"And for a man who was not _born_," interposed Charlus, "he was wonderfully well brought up. I knew of but one fault that he had: he was not religious." "A man so _comme il faut_!" said Marie sarcastically; "it's surprising. Never fear, papa, he won't have a civil burial. He won't inflict that on you." As she was really kind-hearted, she was a little ashamed of having scratched a dying man on the petty absurdities of his life, and she added: "No matter, even if he was a bit of a 'snob', he was an excellent man." "Excellent!" echoed the marquis; and with the simple benignity which had always touched his son so deeply, he continued, with tears in his eyes: "I have known him more than thirty years. He has been a perfect friend to me. A friend, that is something not to be replaced at my age, nor at any age! We are happy, breathing freely, going our ways; I see him suffering, and--" He paused, then continued in a deep voice: "If he must go, I wish I had bade him adieu." He paused again, and as the wonderful vitality of his blood naturally inspired his brain with optimistic thoughts, he said: "But we are in a great hurry to bury him, and the bulletin does not suggest an aggravated case. Let us hope. I couldn't go to Paris to-day, on account of the hunt. To-morrow we shall shoot a few partridges. I will go day after to-morrow." Plainly he had felt a twinge of remorse because he was not at the bedside of the friend he loved. He had yielded, he yielded again to the hereditary passion which decreed that Louis XVI should hunt the stag while the Jacobins were taking away his throne. And, shaking off his sad thoughts definitively, he said to his son:-- "You must be tired, my boy. You must have something to eat."--And, to a servant: "A plate.--Some foie gras? Here." He began to serve Landri himself.--"The liver of my own birds, mademoiselle, and I am proud of it!--A glass of champagne? I am hungry too."--He ate again.--"But it's a healthy hunger, of the sort that your circuit in an automobile won't give me, mademoiselle, no. A four hours' gallop in my forest, and I breathe in life through every pore. These woods have been ours for three hundred years. That's a long lease!--Ah! so you propose to make me _up-to-date_! On the contrary I will make you 'old France.' You recited some decadent verses to me just now. I am going to recite you some of the sixteenth century. They're by Jacques Grévin, the physician of Marguerite de France. It's a description of this very forest of ours:-- "'Dedans ces bois et forests ombrageuses Sont les sangliers et les biches peureuses, Les marcassins, fans de biches et daims, Les cerfs cornus, familiers aux silvains, Bref, le plaisir et soulas et bonheur Que peut avoir ès forests le veneur.'"[2]