The house that Lansade had purchased for his retirement was one of those ordinary country mansions which are so dear to the petits bourgeois of Paris. Situated on the summit of a small eminence, it could be seen at a considerable distance. This modest elevation had been preferred by the merchant to sites of a more commanding description, and which could have been obtained at a more advantageous price. The fortunate purchaser was persuaded that all persons who journeyed from Paris to Versailles, and from Versailles to Paris, would eagerly inquire,—

“To whom does that pretty piece of property belong? Who resides in that charming cottage on the hill yonder?”

And then some well-informed traveller would respond,—

“It is the chateau of M. Lansade, a very rich merchant, who has retired from business.”

This idea seemed to fascinate Lansade, and he was never weary of trying to improve the aspect of his house.

The “retired merchant” was seated in front of his mansion, watching for the arrival of his guests, in order to enjoy their astonishment at the sight of his splendid establishment. As soon as he caught sight of them, he shouted,—

“Hurry, my young friends; breakfast is waiting. I had ceased to look for you, upon my word. I was about to go to the table. What do you think of my little establishment?”

The painter and Bonnaud went into ecstasies, the first for politeness, and the second in honest admiration. Eusebe was silent. After considerable trifling chat, the party seated themselves at the table.

Those who reside in the suburbs of Paris are wholly ignorant of the charms of a rural repast: they live as they would live in the city. Those who live on the borders of the Seine eat no other fish than those purchased in the market of Paris. Let any one who does not credit this singularity go to AsniÈres or to Chaton, and he will be convinced.

Lansade pressed his guests to satisfy their appetite, and made earnest inquiries as to the quality of the dishes.

“How do you find that capon?”

“Delicious,” answered Buck, who was obliged to keep up the conversation while Bonnaud ate and Eusebe mused. “Delicious! Your poultry-yard is, then, already populated?”

“Not at all. But I have a friend in the market of the VallÉe. When I wish to obtain game or poultry, I can always procure the best. I have only to write three days previous. Will you try the matelotte?”

“Directly. You are in a convenient place for fresh fish.”

“Yes, the river is quite near; but the fishermen prefer to send their fish to Paris: they may get a lower price there, but they are sure of a sale. As to fruits, however, the case is different: none can be procured in the whole commune.”

“That is a trifling misfortune.”

“Monsieur Martin, what is the matter with you? You appear sad!”

“No.”

“You do not eat?”

“Pardon me, my dear Lansade.”

“It is true,” said Bonnaud: “monsieur is quite abstracted.”

“Eusebe,” cried Buck, “these gentlemen speak truly. You have something concealed from us. Are you unhappy? Are you home-sick, my boy? are you anxious to behold your native meadows? Do these maples awaken in you a desire to see once more your tall chestnuts? and the good things spread before us by our friend Lansade, do they remind you of your own rural repasts in the paternal mansion?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps you have left, seated on the banks of the Vienna, a young shepherdess, who sadly awaits your return?”

Lansade laughed rather boisterously. He and his mercantile friend had drank very little, but nevertheless more than usual.

“Well,” continued Buck, “let Eusebe swear to us that he is not in love, and I will leave him in peace.”

“I never swear.”

“Then admit that you are in love, my melancholy friend.”

“It is true,” replied Eusebe.

This confession was made with some reluctance, because delicate souls always dislike to allow a third person to intrude between them and the object of their affection. But Eusebe did not know how to lie, and did not wish to learn. As he felt his heart swelling and his eyes moistening, he arose and went out. He seated himself in a chair in the garden; and there Paul soon rejoined him.

“I gave you pain, my gentle savage,” said the painter. “Pardon me, I beg of you. I am sorry, above all, that I was not more guarded before those vulgar fellows. You are angry with me?”

“No: I even intended to tell you every thing,—but at another time. I know not whether it was because of the presence of our friends, or because I was not prepared, but your persistence provoked me.”

“Ah! I am grieved. I do not like to meddle with the palette of a comrade: each to his own color. But, since we have touched upon the subject, tell me all. I can serve you, perhaps. I also have loved.”

“Is that true?” said Eusebe, rising.

“At least ten times; perhaps more.”

Eusebe sank back upon the seat, saying, sadly,—

“It is useless. You will not comprehend me.”

Paul insisted. His friend finished by yielding to his importunities, and related all that had occurred to him, and all he had felt. Buck, notwithstanding his frivolity, became grave and serious as he listened to the details of this affair of the heart.

“Poor fellow!” said he. “It is unlucky that your first love should be inspired by a comÉdienne, and, above all, by this one.”

“Why?”

“For many reasons. You must see her no more.”

“Impossible!”

“Ay, I know what you would say. If you could not see her any more, you would die.”

“I might not die; but I could not live.”

The voice of Lansade was now heard:—

“Come, messieurs: the coffee is getting cold.”