nightcap resolutely over his eyes, turned his back to the door, hoisted
the bedclothes high over his shoulders, and gradually fell asleep.

How long he slept he could not say, when he was awakened by the voice
of some one at his bed-side. He turned round and beheld the old French
servant, with his ear-locks in tight buckles on each side of a long,
lanthorn face, on which habit had deeply wrinkled an everlasting smile.
He made a thousand grimaces and asked a thousand pardons for disturbing
Monsieur, but the morning was considerably advanced. While my uncle was
dressing, he called vaguely to mind the visitor of the preceding night.
He asked the ancient domestic what lady was in the habit of rambling
about this part of the chateau at night. The old valet shrugged his
shoulders as high as his head, laid one hand on his bosom, threw open
the other with every finger extended; made a most whimsical grimace,
which he meant to be complimentary:

"It was not for him to know any thing of _les braves fortunes_ of
Monsieur."

My uncle saw there was nothing satisfactory to be learnt in this
quarter. After breakfast he was walking with the Marquis through the
modern apartments of the chateau; sliding over the well-waxed floors of
silken saloons, amidst furniture rich in gilding and brocade; until
they came to a long picture gallery, containing many portraits, some in
oil and some in chalks.

Here was an ample field for the eloquence of his host, who had all the
family pride of a nobleman of the _ancient regime_. There was not a
grand name in Normandy, and hardly one in France, that was not, in some
way or other, connected with his house. My uncle stood listening with