Christmas at Rosebury

We have known our friend Florac under two aristocratic names, and might now salute¹ him by a third, to which he was entitled, although neither he nor his wife ever chose to assume it. His father was lately dead, and M. Paul de Florac might sign himself Duc d’Ivry if he chose, but he was indifferent as to the matter, and his wife’s friends indignant at the idea that their kinswoman, after having been a Princess, should descend² to the rank of a mere³ Duchess. So Prince and Princess these good folks remained, being exceptions to that order, inasmuch as their friends could certainly put their trust in them.

On his father’s death Florac went to Paris, to settle the affairs of the paternal⁴ succession; and, having been for some time absent in his native country, returned to Rosebury for the winter, to resume that sport of which he was a distinguished⁵ amateur. He hunted in black during the ensuing season; and, indeed, henceforth laid aside his splendid attire⁶ and his allurements⁷ as a young man. His waist expanded, or was no longer confined by the cestus which had given it a shape. When he laid aside his black, his whiskers, too, went into a sort of half-mourning, and appeared in grey. “I make myself old, my friend,” he said, pathetically; “I have no more neither twenty years nor forty.” He went to Rosebury Church no more; but, with great order and sobriety, drove every Sunday to the neighbouring Catholic chapel⁹ at C—— Castle. We had an ecclesiastic¹⁰ or two to dine with us at Rosebury, one of whom I inclined to think was Florac’s director.

A reason, perhaps, for Paul’s altered demeanour, was the presence of his mother at Rosebury. No politeness or respect could be greater than Paul’s towards the Countess. Had she been a sovereign princess, Madame de Florac could not have been treated with more profound courtesy than she now received from her son. I think the humble-minded lady could have

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