The end has come at last, and I now speak
freely. My name is not Carrington. I am Viscomte Champfontaine, of
Champfontaine, in the department of Charente, and my name was once the
grandest in western France; but the Revolution robbed us of lands and
wealth, and there remain now but four rugged stone towers of that
splendid chateau which once rose proudly above the woods of
Champfontaine, like a picture by Gustave Dore. The fountain in the
field still flows, limpid as in those days when the soldier-Gaul
pitched his tent beside its waters, and took for himself the name of
Champfontaine. To restore that name, to rebuild that chateau--that is
the dream which I have cherished."
Excited by this unwonted revelation of his feelings, and by the
anticipation of the realization of all his hopes, the Frenchman rose,
and paced rapidly up and down the room.
"I will go to Champfontaine," he said. "I will look once more upon the
crumbling towers, so soon to be restored to their primitive strength
and grandeur."
Reginald watched him wonderingly. This enthusiasm about an ancient name
was beyond his comprehension. He too, bore a name that had been
honourable for centuries, and he had recklessly degraded that name. He
had begun life with all the best gifts of fortune in his hands, and had
squandered all.
"I hear your cousin Douglas is very ill," said Carrington, checking his
excited manner, and speaking with a sudden change of tone, which
produced a strange thrill of Sir Reginald's somewhat weak nerves.
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