It was one of the many tragedies of that smiling, sunny land where
only man, it seems, is vile; for nature has enclosed within its
frontier-lines all the varied wealth and beauty of her treasures.

Marie led the way up the first staircase, which was straight and
narrow. The carpet, carefully rolled and laid aside on the landing,
was threadbare and colourless. The muslin curtains, folded back and
pinned together, were darned and yellow with frequent washing and
the rust of ancient damp. She opened the door of the first room at
the head of the stairs. It had once been the apartment of some
servitor; now it contained furniture of the gorgeous days of Louis
XIV., with all the colour gone from its tapestry, all the woodwork
grey and worm-eaten.

"Not that one," said Marie, as the Abbe struggled with the lever
that fastened the window. "That one has not been opened for many
years. See! the glass rattles in the frame. It is the other that
opens."

Without comment the Abbe opened the other window and threw back the
shutters, from which all the paint had peeled away, and let in the
scented air. Mignonette close at hand--which had bloomed and died
and cast its seed amid the old walls and falling stones since Marie
Antoinette had taught the women of France to take an interest in
their gardens; and from the great plains beyond--flat and fat--
carefully laid there by the Garonne to give the world its finest
wines, rose up the subtle scent of vines in bloom.

"The drawing-room," said Marie, and making a mock-curtsey toward the