But, indoors, one returns to modern times.  The table, beds, rooms of the chateau were much the same as those of Toulouse and New York city.  The cooking is not like ours, however, unless Delmonico’s skill be supposed to have extended to all the homes in Manhattan Island, which is, unfortunately, not the case.  What an admirable product of French genius is the art of cooking!  Of incalculable value have been the culinary teachings of Vatel and his followers.

One of the sources of amusement, during my sojourn at Jacournassy, was of a literary nature.  My son Theodore was then busy collecting the materials for his book entitled “The Woman Question in Europe,” and every post brought in manuscripts and letters from all parts of the continent, written in almost every tongue known to Babel.  So just what I came abroad to avoid, I found on the very threshold where I came to rest.  We had good linguists at the chateau, and every document finally came forth in English dress, which, however, often needed much altering and polishing.  This was my part of the work.  So, away off in the heart of France, high up in the Black Mountains, surrounded with French-speaking relatives and patois-speaking peasants, I found myself once more putting bad English into the best I could command, just as I had so often done in America, when editor of The Revolution, or when arranging manuscript for “The History of Woman Suffrage.”  But it was labor in the cause of my sex; it was aiding in the creation of “The Woman Question in Europe,” and so my pen did not grow slack nor my hand weary.

The scenery in the Black Mountains is very grand, and reminds one of the lofty ranges of mountains around the Yosemite Valley in California.  In the distance are the snow-capped Pyrenees, producing a solemn beauty, a profound solitude.  We used to go every evening where we could see the sun set and watch the changing shadows in the broad valley below.  Another great pleasure here was watching the gradual development of my first grandchild, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, born at Paris, on the 3d of May, 1882.  She was a fine child; though only three months old her head was covered with dark hair, and her large blue eyes looked out with intense earnestness from beneath her well-shaped brow.

One night I had a terrible fright.  I was the only person sleeping on the ground floor of the chateau, and my room was at the extreme end of the building, with the staircase on the other side.  I had frequently been cautioned not to leave my windows open, as someone might get in.  But, as I always slept with an open window, winter and summer, I thought I would take the risk rather than endure a feeling of suffocation night after night.  The blinds were solid, and to close them was to exclude all the air, so I left them open about a foot, braced by an iron hook.  A favorite resort for a pet donkey was under my window, where he had uniformly slept in profound silence.  But one glorious moonlight night, probably to arouse