It was an easy journey from B——­ville to Pinon.  An hour’s drive through our beautiful forest of Villers-Cotterets and another hour in the train.  We stopped at the little station of Anizy just outside the gates of the park; a brougham was waiting for us and a very short drive through a stately avenue brought us to the drawbridge and the iron gates of the “Cour d’honneur.”  The house looked imposing; I had an impression of a very high and very long facade with two towers stretching out into the court-yard, which is very large, with fine old trees and broad parterres of bright-coloured flowers on either side of the steps.  There was a wide moat of running water, the banks covered with shrubs and flowers—­the flowers were principally salvias and chrysanthemums, as it was late in the season, but they made a warm bit of colour.  The house stands low, as do all houses surrounded by a moat, but the park rises a little directly behind it and there is a fine background of wood.

We drew up at a flight of broad, shallow steps; the doors were open.  There were three or four footmen in the ante-room.  While we were taking off our wraps Mme. de Courval appeared; she was short, stout, dressed in black, with that terrible black cap which all widows wear in France—­so different from the white cap and soft white muslin collar and cuffs we are accustomed to.  She had a charming, easy manner and looked very intelligent and capable.  It seems she managed the property extremely well, made the tour of the house, woods and garden every day with her “regisseur.”  W. had the highest opinion of her business capacity—­said she knew the exact market value of everything on the place—­from an old tree that must be cut down for timber to the cheeses the farmer’s wife made and sold at the Soissons market.

She suggested that I should come upstairs to leave my heavy coat.  We went up a broad stone staircase, the walls covered with pictures and engravings; one beautiful portrait of her daughter, the Marquise de Chaponay, on horseback.  There were handsome carved chests and china vases on the landing, which opened on a splendid long gallery, very high and light—­bedrooms on one side, on the other big windows (ten or twelve, I should think) looking over the park and gardens.  She took me to a large, comfortable room, bright wood fire blazing, and a pretty little dressing-room opening out of it, furnished in a gay, old-fashioned pattern of chintz.  She said breakfast would be ready in ten minutes—­supposed I could find my way down, and left me to my own devices.

I found the family assembled in the drawing-room; four women:  Mme. de Courval and her daughter, the Marquise de Chaponay, a tall handsome woman, and two other ladies of a certain age; I did not catch their names, but they looked like all the old ladies one always sees in a country house in France.  I should think they were cousins or habituees of the chateau, as they each had their embroidery frame and one a little dog.  I am haunted by the embroidery frames—­I am sure I shall end my days in a black cap, bending over a frame making portieres or a piano-cover.