This because Benoit, M. de
Kercadiou's old seneschal, had accompanied his seigneur upon this
soft adventure, and was installed - to the ceaseless and but
half-concealed hilarity of the impertinent valetaille that M.
Etienne had left - as his maitre d'hotel here at Meudon.
Benoit had welcomed M. Andre with incoherencies of delight; almost
had he gambolled about him like some faithful dog, whilst conducting
him to the salon and the presence of the Lord of Gavrillac, who
would - in the words of Benoit - be ravished to see M. Andre again.
"Monseigneur! Monseigneur!" he cried in a quavering voice, entering
a pace or two in advance of the visitor. "It is M. Andre... M.
Andre, your godson, who comes to kiss your hand. He is here... and
so fine that you would hardly know him. Here he is, monseigneur! Is
he not beautiful?"
And the old servant rubbed his hands in conviction of the delight
that he believed he was conveying to his master.
Andre-Louis crossed the threshold of that great room, soft-carpeted
to the foot, dazzling to the eye.
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