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But the royal avenue of beeches! Well, I must tell you more about that, else you can never feel the meaning of this story. The love of trees was hereditary in the family and antedated their other nobility. The founder of the house had begun life as the son of a forester in Luxemburg. His name was Pol Staar.
"It is a white buoy that I seek," said the pilot, turning to those on the bridge behind him, his jolly red face puckered with anxiety. And quite suddenly the second officer, a bright-red Scotchman with little blue eyes like tempered gimlets, threw out a red hand and pointing finger. "There she rides," he said. "There she rides; staar boarrrd your hellum!"
It was in this spirit that Pol Staar, first Baron d'Azan, planted in 1809 the broad avenue of beeches, leading from the chateau straight across the park to the highroad. But he never saw their glory, for he died when they were only twenty years old. His son and successor was of a different timber and grain; less aristocratic, more bourgeois a rover, a gambler, a man of fashion.
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