“If every one followed your example in other places, sir, France would be great indeed, and might laugh at the rest of Europe!” cried Genestas enthusiastically.

“But I have kept you out here for half an hour,” said Benassis; “it is growing dark, let us go in to dinner.”

The doctor’s house, on the side facing the garden, consists of a ground floor and a single story, with a row of five windows in each, dormer windows also project from the tiled mansard-roof.  The green-painted shutters are in startling contrast with the gray tones of the walls.  A vine wanders along the whole side of the house, a pleasant strip of green like a frieze, between the two stories.  A few struggling Bengal roses make shift to live as best they may, half drowned at times by the drippings from the gutterless eaves.

As you enter the large vestibule, the salon lies to your right; it contains four windows, two of which look into the yard, and two into the garden.  Ceiling and wainscot are paneled, and the walls are hung with seventeenth century tapestry—­pathetic evidence that the room had been the object of the late owner’s aspiration, and that he had lavished all that he could spare upon it.  The great roomy armchairs, covered with brocaded damask; the old fashioned, gilded candle-sconces above the chimney-piece, and the window curtains with their heavy tassels, showed that the cure had been a wealthy man.  Benassis had made some additions to this furniture, which was not without a character of its own.  He had placed two smaller tables, decorated with carved wooden garlands, between the windows on opposite sides of the room, and had put a clock, in a case of tortoise shell, inlaid with copper, upon the mantel-shelf.  The doctor seldom occupied the salon; its atmosphere was damp and close, like that of a room that is always kept shut.  Memories of the dead cure still lingered about it; the peculiar scent of his tobacco seemed to pervade the corner by the hearth where he had been wont to sit.  The two great easy-chairs were symmetrically arranged on either side of the fire, which had not been lighted since the time of M. Gravier’s visit; the bright flames from the pine logs lighted the room.

“The evenings are chilly even now,” said Benassis; “it is pleasant to see a fire.”

Genestas was meditating.  He was beginning to understand the doctor’s indifference to his every-day surroundings.

“It is surprising to me, sir, that you, who possess real public spirit, should have made no effort to enlighten the Government, after accomplishing so much.”

Benassis began to laugh, but without bitterness; he said, rather sadly: