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"And the Marquis and Mademoiselle are unhurt? Thank God thank God! we were just in time, but we had a smart run for it." Chapeau had already dived into the kitchen through the window, and had learnt that at any rate the republicans had as yet shed no blood. "And how did the Marquis bear it, Momont?" said he. "It was enough to kill the old gentleman." "'Why, yes," said Momont.
No revolt without M. Debedin's ostler?" said they one after another. "No no revolt without M. Debedin's ostler, Madame." The last question had been asked by the cook. "M. Debedin's ostler is as good, I suppose, as M. Gaspardieu's postillion." "What, as good as Cathelineau?" asked Momont. "As good as our good postillion!" shouted Chapeau.
For a momont fancy repeopled it; again the stir of life, pastime, mirth, and hospitality echoed within its walls; the train of his long departed relatives returned; the din of rude and boisterous enjoyment peculiar to the times; the cheerful tumult of the hall at dinner; the family feuds and festivities; the vanities and the passions of those who now slept in dust; all all came before him once more, and played their part in the vision of the moment!
Agatha had closed her book, and was rising to execute her father's wishes, when Momont, the grey-haired butler, hurrying round from the kitchen-door as fast his old legs would carry him, screamed out: "The blues! the blues!" Agatha, who was in the act of entering the house as she heard the fearful cry, turned instantly back to her father's side. She was deadly pale, but she spoke not a word.
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