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here was a dignity in the manners of M. de Lambert to me formidable and oppressive. It showed in his tall, erect figure, his deep tone, his silvered hair and mustache. There was a merry word between the kisses of one daughter; between those of the other only tears and a broken murmur.
"Oh, papa," said Louison, as she greeted him, "I do love you—but I dread that—tickly old mustache. Mon Dieu! what a lover—you must have been!"
Then she presented me, and put her hand upon my arm, looking proudly at her father.
"My captain!" said she. "Did you ever see a handsomer Frenchman?"
"There are many, and here is one," said he, turning to the young count, who stood behind
