from the diligence, and always brought him through the park gates to the lodge, where he delivered him over to Antoine.  It was curious to see the blind man at work.  Once he had been led through the rooms, he was quite at home, found the pianos, fussed over the keys and the strings, exactly as if he saw everything.  He tuned all the pianos in the country, and was much pleased to put his hands on one that wasn’t fifty years old.  I had brought down my new Erard.

Sometimes a country wedding passed, and that was always a pretty sight.  A marriage is always an important affair in France in every class of life.  There are long discussions with all the members of the two families.  The cure, the notary, the patron (if the young man is a workman), are all consulted, and there are as many negotiations and agreements in the most humble families as in the grand monde of the Faubourg St. Germain.  Almost all French parents give a dot of some kind to their children, and whatever the sum is, either five hundred francs or two thousand, it is always scrupulously paid over to the notary.  The wedding-day is a long one.  After the religious ceremony in the church, all the wedding party—­members of the two families and a certain number of friends—­adjourn to the hotel of the little town for a breakfast, which is long and most abundant.  Then comes the crowning glory of the day—­a country walk along the dusty highroad to some wood or meadow where they can spend the whole afternoon.  It is pretty to see the little procession trudging along—­the bride in all her wedding garments, white dress, white shoes, wreath, and veil; the groom in a dress coat, top-hat, white cravat and waistcoat, with a white ribbon bow on his sleeve.  Almost all the girls and young women are dressed in white or light colours; the mothers and grandmothers (the whole family turns out) in black with flowers in their bonnets.  There is usually a fiddler walking ahead making most remarkable sounds on his old cracked instrument, and the younger members of the party take an occasional gallop along the road.  They are generally very gay; there is much laughing, and from time to time a burst of song.  It is always a mystery to me how the bride keeps her dress and petticoat so clean, but she does, with that extraordinary knack all Frenchwomen seem to have of holding up their skirts.  They passed often under the wall of the chateau, for a favourite resting-place was in our woods at the entrance of the allee verte, where it widens out a little; the moss makes a beautiful soft carpet, and the big trees give perfect shade.  We heard sounds of merriment one day when we were passing and we stopped to look on, from behind the bushes, where we couldn’t be seen.  There was quite a party assembled.  The fiddler was playing some sort of country-dance and all the company, except the very old people, were dancing and singing, some of the men indulging in most wonderful steps and capers.  The children were playing and running under the trees.  One stout man was asleep, stretched out full length on the side of the road.  I fancy his piquette, as they call the ordinary white wine of the country, had been too much for him.  The bride and groom were strolling about a little apart from the others, quite happy and lover-like, his arm around her waist, she blushing and giggling.