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Updated: April 30, 2025
He had been diverted from the object of his journey to Scotland by just such a hint at romance as never failed to fascinate a Montaiglon, and he must be puzzling himself about the dulcet singer and her share in the clandestine midnight meeting.
Long after, when Count Victor Jean de Montaiglon was come into great good fortune, and sat snug by charcoal-fires in the chateau that bears his name, and stands, an edifice even the Du Barry had the taste to envy, upon the gusset of the roads which break apart a league to the south of the forest of Saint Germain-en-Laye, he would recount, with oddly inconsistent humours of mirth and tense dramatics, the manner of his escape from the cell in the fosse of the great MacCailen.
The little man, to tell the truth, had somehow laughed at the wrong moment for Count Victor's peace of mind. For why should he be amused at the paucity of the visitors from Argyll's court to the residence of Doom? Across the table at a man unable to conceal his confusion Montaiglon stole an occasional glance with suspicion growing on him irresistibly.
In the beam of light that came through the hole in a shutter of a house they passed, Montaiglon saw that his companion's face was all wrought with wretchedness, and a tear was on his cheek. The discovery took him aback.
It's the build o' them, 'Lowlan' or 'Hielan', the breed o' them; the dour hard character o' their country and their mainner o' leevin'. We gied the English a fleg at the 'Forty-five, didnae we? That was where the tartan cam' in: man, there's naethin' like us!" "You do not speak like a Highlander," said Montaiglon, finding some of this gasconade unintelligible.
The Chamberlain was disappointed. It was one of those evenings when Mrs. Petullo was used to seek him in the woods, and he had thought to find her husband by himself. "A perfect picture of a happy hearth, eh?" said he. "I'm sweared to spoil it, but I'm bound to lose no time in bringing to you my good friend M. Montaiglon, who has taken up his quarters at the Boar's Head.
Ye're here on a search for ane Drimdarroch." "You are a wizard, Monsieur Mungo!" cried Montaiglon, not without chagrin at Doom's handing over so vast and vital a secret to a menial.
"Come!" said he at last, with a sudden thought; "the sand's the place, though it's a bit to go," and he led the way hurriedly towards the riverside. "One of us may go farther to-day and possibly fare worse," said Montaiglon with unwearied good-humour, stepping in his rear. It was the beginning of the dawn.
A solemn game indeed, for the Baron was a man of a sobriety unaccountable to Montaiglon, who, from what he knew of Macdonnel of Barisdel, Mac-leod, Balhaldie, and the others of the Gaelic gang in Paris, had looked for a roysterer in Doom.
"À la santé de la bonne cause!" said the Count politely, choking upon the fiery liquor and putting down the glass with an apology. "I am come from France from Saint Germains," he said. "You may have heard of my uncle; I am the Count de Montaiglon." The Baron betrayed a moment's confusion. "Do you tell me, now?" said he. "Then you are the more welcome.
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