Monsieur Raoul, in his carriage, was making the round of the estates.
To a certain extent, this was a frequent custom, but there were times
when it was attended by a more deliberate ceremony and purpose, and such
was the case this morning. The carriage went slowly, as if on a tour of
inspection. When it passed men, they gave a ready "Good-day." Where
the white-capped women were not at work, they came smiling to their
doorways on hearing the familiar noise of wheels, sometimes holding up
their children that they, too, might look at M. Raoul. Evidently he
was a great personage, although you might not have guessed it.
As for the estate, to the eye it was all that could be desired. The
land, it was true, was flat, but so rich and so highly cultivated that,
except the meadows, not a foot but appeared to grow crops. Vineyards
caught the hot sun on ripening grapes; apple orchards surrounded
cottages; the beauty was glowing, tranquil, a little substantial.
Through the heart of the country flowed a broad river, offering
excellent fishing, and in places bordered with orderly poplars; on one
side was a high bank; the only hill was insignificant, and rose behind
the chateau. It was possible to conceive an ugly air of desolation
abroad in winter, but in autumn, and autumn as yet untouched by decay,
there was a delightful fresh gaiety in the bounty of the land. At one
spot where the carriage arrived in sight of the river, M. Raoul craned
his neck forward, but made no remark.
The tour of the cottages accomplished, the carriage turned homeward.
When it reached a point where a narrow path broke away, M. Raoul waved
his hand in that direction.
"There!" he said, determinedly.
The carriage came to a stand-still. The driver turned doubtfully and
scratched his head.
"But, monsieur--" he remonstrated.