She dreamed of the return of the absurd traditions of a former age;
he hoped for things within the power of events to bring forth. He was
sincerely persuaded that the nobles of France would yet recover slowly
and silently, but surely, all their lost power, with its prestige and
influence.
In a word, the count was the flattered portrait of his class; the
marchioness its caricature. It should be added, that M. de Commarin knew
how to divest himself of his crushing urbanity in the company of his
equals. There he recovered his true character, haughty, self-sufficient,
and intractable, enduring contradiction pretty much as a wild horse the
application of the spur. In his own house, he was a despot.
Perceiving his father, Albert advanced towards him. They shook hands
and embraced with an air as noble as ceremonious, and, in less than
a minute, had exchanged all the news that had transpired during the
count's absence. Then only did M. de Commarin perceive the alteration in
his son's face.
"You are unwell, viscount," said he.
"Oh, no, sir," answered Albert, laconically.
The count uttered "Ah!" accompanied by a certain movement of the head,
which, with him, expressed perfect incredulity; then, turning to his
servant, he gave him some orders briefly.
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