"The ladies are fortunate in their weather," remarked the Duc de
Rhetore.
"Oh, in spite of all their boasting," replied the Prince de Cadignan,
"I think they will let us hunt without them!"
"So they might, if each had not a squire," said the duke.
At this moment the attention of these determined huntsmen--for the
Prince de Loudon and the Duc de Rhetore are of the race of Nimrod, and
the best shots of the faubourg Saint-Germain--was attracted by a loud
altercation; and they spurred their horses to an open space at the
entrance to the forest of Rosembray, famous for its mossy turf, which
was appointed for the meet. The cause of the quarrel was soon
apparent. The Prince de Loudon, afflicted with anglomania, had brought
out his own hunting establishment, which was exclusively Britannic,
and placed it under orders of the Master of the Hunt. Now, one of his
men, a little Englishman,--fair, pale, insolent, and phlegmatic,
scarcely able to speak a word of French, and dressed with a neatness
which distinguishes all Britons, even those of the lower classes,--had
posted himself on one side of this open space.
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