"French," Charles replied, and the negotiation continued thenceforth
in that language. It is the only one, save English and his ancestral
Dutch, with which my brother-in-law possesses even a nodding
acquaintance.
We praised the beautiful scene. The Count's face lighted up with
patriotic pride. Yes; it was beautiful, beautiful, his own green
Tyrol. He was proud of it and attached to it. But he could endure
to sell this place, the home of his fathers, because he had a finer
in the Salzkammergut, and a pied-a-terre near Innsbruck. For Tyrol
lacked just one joy--the sea. He was a passionate yachtsman. For
that he had resolved to sell this estate; after all, three country
houses, a ship, and a mansion in Vienna, are more than one man can
comfortably inhabit.
"Exactly," Charles answered. "If I can come to terms with you about
this charming estate I shall sell my own castle in the Scotch
Highlands." And he tried to look like a proud Scotch chief who
harangues his clansmen.
Then they got to business. The Count was a delightful man to do
business with. His manners were perfect. While we were talking to
him, a surly person, a steward or bailiff, or something of the sort,
came into the room unexpectedly and addressed him in German, which
none of us understand.
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