Whether Monsieur
Quesnel thought them the same, or not, he would readily have sacrificed
his sister’s peace to the gratification of his own ambition; and, on
her marriage with St. Aubert, expressed in private his contempt of her
spiritless conduct, and of the connection which it permitted. Madame
St. Aubert, though she concealed this insult from her husband, felt,
perhaps, for the first time, resentment lighted in her heart; and,
though a regard for her own dignity, united with considerations of
prudence, restrained her expression of this resentment, there was ever
after a mild reserve in her manner towards M. Quesnel, which he both
understood and felt. In his own marriage he did not follow his sister’s example. His lady
was an Italian, and an heiress by birth; and, by nature and education,
was a vain and frivolous woman. They now determined to pass the night with St. Aubert; and as the
château was not large enough to accommodate their servants, the latter
were dismissed to the neighbouring village. When the first compliments
were over, and the arrangements for the night made M. Quesnel began the
display of his intelligence and his connections; while St. Aubert, who
had been long enough in retirement to find these topics recommended by
their novelty, listened, with a degree of patience and attention, which
his guest mistook for the humility of wonder. The latter, indeed,
described the few festivities which the turbulence of that period
permitted to the court of Henry the Third, with a minuteness, that
somewhat recompensed for his ostentation; but, when he came to speak of
the character of the Duke de Joyeuse, of a secret treaty, which he knew
to be negotiating with the Porte, and of the light in which Henry of
Navarre was received, M. St. Aubert recollected enough of his former
experience to be assured, that his guest could be only of an inferior
class of politicians; and that, from the importance of the subjects
upon which he committed himself, he could not be of the rank to which
he pretended to belong. The opinions delivered by M. Quesnel, were such
as St. Aubert forebore to reply to, for he knew that his guest had
neither humanity to feel, nor discernment to perceive, what is just. Madame Quesnel, meanwhile, was expressing to Madame St. Aubert her
astonishment, that she could bear to pass her life in this remote
corner of the world, as she called it, and describing, from a wish,
probably, of exciting envy, the splendour of the balls, banquets, and
processions which had just been given by the court, in honour of the
nuptials of the Duke de Joyeuse with Margaretta of Lorrain, the sister
of the Queen. She described with equal minuteness the magnificence she
had seen, and that from which she had been excluded; while Emily’s
vivid fancy, as she listened with the ardent curiosity of youth,
heightened the scenes she heard of; and Madame St. Aubert, looking on
her family, felt, as a tear stole to her eye, that though splendour may
grace happiness, virtue only can bestow it. “It is now twelve years, St. Aubert,” said M. Quesnel, “since I
purchased your family estate.”—“Somewhere thereabout,” replied St.
Aubert, suppressing a sigh. “It is near five years since I have been
there,” resumed Quesnel; “for Paris and its neighbourhood is the only
place in the world to live in, and I am so immersed in politics, and
have so many affairs of moment on my hands, that I find it difficult to
steal away even for a month or two.” St. Aubert remaining silent, M.
Quesnel proceeded: “I have sometimes wondered how you, who have lived
in the capital, and have been accustomed to company, can exist
elsewhere;—especially in so remote a country as this, where you can
neither hear nor see anything, and can in short be scarcely conscious
of life.”

“I live for my family and myself,” said St. Aubert; “I am now contented
to know only happiness;—formerly I knew life.”

“I mean to expend thirty or forty thousand livres on improvements,”
said M. Quesnel, without seeming to notice the words of St. Aubert;
“for I design, next summer, to bring here my friends, the Duke de
Durefort and the Marquis Ramont, to pass a month or two with me.” To
St. Aubert’s enquiry, as to these intended improvements, he replied,
that he should take down the whole east wing of the château, and raise
upon the site a set of stables. “Then I shall build,” said he, “a
_salle à manger_, a _salon_, a _salle au commune_, and a number of
rooms for servants; for at present there is not accommodation for a
third part of my own people.”

“It accommodated our father’s household,” said St. Aubert, grieved that
the old mansion was to be thus improved, “and that was not a small
one.”

“Our notions are somewhat enlarged since those days,” said M.
Quesnel;—“what was then thought a decent style of living would not now
be endured.” Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words, but his
anger soon yielded to contempt. “The ground about the château is
encumbered with trees; I mean to cut some of them down.”

“Cut down the trees too!” said St. Aubert. “Certainly. Why should I not? they interrupt my prospects. There is a
chesnut which spreads its branches before the whole south side of the
château, and which is so ancient that they tell me the hollow of its
trunk will hold a dozen men. Your enthusiasm will scarcely contend that
there can be either use, or beauty, in such a sapless old tree as
this.”

“Good God!” exclaimed St. Aubert, “you surely will not destroy that
noble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of the
estate! It was in its maturity when the present mansion was built. How
often, in my youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and sat
embowered amidst a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has pattered
above, and not a rain drop reached me! How often I have sat with a book
in my hand, sometimes reading, and sometimes looking out between the
branches upon the wide landscape, and the setting sun, till twilight
came, and brought the birds home to their little nests among the
leaves! How often—but pardon me,” added St. Aubert, recollecting that
he was speaking to a man who could neither comprehend, nor allow his
feelings, “I am talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned as the
taste that would spare that venerable tree.”

“It will certainly come down,” said M. Quesnel; “I believe I shall
plant some Lombardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that I shall
leave of the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and tells
me how much it adorns a villa of her uncle, not far from Venice.”

“On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,” continued St. Aubert, “where its
spiry form is intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and where it
plays over light and elegant porticos and colonnades, it,
unquestionably, adorns the scene; but among the giants of the forest,
and near a heavy gothic mansion—”

“Well, my good sir,” said M. Quesnel, “I will not dispute with you.