“A language which madame speaks more perfectly than any foreigner I have ever known,” I remarked.  She bowed in answer, well pleased.

In truth, the accent of Madame Grambeau was barely detectable, and her phraseology was that of a well-translated book—­correct, but not idiomatic, and bearing about it the idiosyncrasy of the language from which it was derived.  She was evidently a person of culture and native power of intellect combined, and her finely-moulded face, as well as every gesture and tone, indicated superiority and character.

In that lonely wild, and beneath that lowly roof, there abode a spirit able and worthy to lead the coteries of the great, and to preside over the councils of statesmen, and (to rise in climax) the drawing-room of the grande monde. But it was her whim rather than her necessity to tarry where she could alone be strictly independent, a sine qua non of her being.

The son she had led by the hand from New York to Georgia, and who, standing by her side, distinctly remembered to have seen the head of the Princess Lamballe borne on a pole through the streets of Paris, was now a prominent member of the Legislature, and, through his rich wife, the incumbent of a great plantation.

But the teachings of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, that philosophic sign-post, still influenced his mother, in her refusal to live under his splendid roof, and partake of his bounty, however liberally offered.

“I have a home of my own,” she said, “a few faithful servants, brains, and energy still, besides a small account with General Curzon, in his bank at Savannah, wherewith to meet emergencies; while these things last, I will owe to no man or woman for bread or shelter.  And, when these depart, may the grave cover my bones, and the good God receive my soul!”

Books alone she accepted as gifts from her son, and of these, in a little three-cornered library, she had a goodly store in the two languages which she read with equal facility, if not delight.

She showed us this nook before we left, and I saw, lying face downward, as she had recently left it, the volume she was then perusing at intervals—­one of Madame Sand’s novels, “Les Mauprats,” I remember, a singular and powerful romance, then recently issued, whose root I have always thought might be found in Walter Scott’s “Rob Roy,” and more particularly in the Osbaldistone family commemorated in that work.

On suggesting this to Madame Grambeau, she too saw the resemblance I spoke of, and she agreed, with me, that the coincidence of genius furnished many such parallels, where no charge of plagiarism could be attached to either side.

A few bottles of “wild-berry wine,” as Elizabeth Barrett called such fluids, were added to the dinner toward its close, and Marion begged permission to have her basket of cakes and fruits brought in for dessert, which else had been wanting to our repast; to which request Madame Grambeau graciously acceded.