closed the window.

Outside, in the park, the huntsmen's horns were sounding the reveille. The
hounds burst into frantic baying. It was the opening day of the hunt that
morning at the Chateau de la Mareze, where, every year, in the first week
in September, the Comte d'Aigleroche, a mighty hunter before the Lord,
and his countess were accustomed to invite a few personal friends and the
neighbouring landowners.

Hortense slowly finished dressing, put on a riding-habit, which
revealed the lines of her supple figure, and a wide-brimmed felt hat,
which encircled her lovely face and auburn hair, and sat down to her
writing-desk, at which she wrote to her uncle, M. d'Aigleroche, a farewell
letter to be delivered to him that evening. It was a difficult letter to
word; and, after beginning it several times, she ended by giving up the
idea.

"I will write to him later," she said to herself, "when his anger has
cooled down."

And she went downstairs to the dining-room.

Enormous logs were blazing in the hearth of the lofty room. The walls were
hung with trophies of rifles and shotguns. The guests were flocking in from
every side, shaking hands with the Comte d'Aigleroche, one of those typical
country squires, heavily and powerfully built, who lives only for hunting
and shooting. He was standing before the fire, with a large glass of old
brandy in his hand, drinking the health of each new arrival.

Hortense kissed him absently: