always accompanying him, playing and barking, and rolling about on the grass.  Then the farmer’s wife, driving herself in her gig, and bringing cheese, butter, milk, and sometimes chickens when our bassecour was getting low.  A little later another lot would appear, people from the village or canton, wanting to see their deputy and have all manner of grievances redressed.  It was curious sometimes to make out, at the end of a long story, told in peasant dialect, with many digressions, what particular service notre depute was expected to render.  I was present sometimes at some of the conversations, and was astounded at W.’s patience and comprehension of what was wanted—­I never understood half.

  [1] W. here and throughout this volume refers to Mme. Waddington’s
  husband, M. William Waddington.

We generally had our day to ourselves.  We rode almost every morning—­long, delicious gallops in the woods, the horses going easily and lightly over the grass roads; and the days W. was away and couldn’t ride, I used to walk about the park and gardens.  The kitchen garden was enormous—­almost a park in itself—­and in the season I eat pounds of white grapes, which ripened to a fine gold color on the walls in the sun.  We rarely saw M. and Mme. A. until twelve-o’clock breakfast.

[Illustration:  I loved to hear her play Beethoven and Handel.]

Sometimes when it was fine we would take a walk with the old people after breakfast, but we generally spent our days apart.  M. and Mme. A. were charming people, intelligent, cultivated, reading everything and keeping quite in touch with all the literary and Protestant world, but they had lived for years entirely in the country, seeing few people, and living for each other.  The first evenings at the chateau made a great impression upon me.  We dined at 7:30, and always sat after dinner in the big drawing-room.  There was one lamp on a round table in the middle of the room (all the corners shrouded in darkness).  M. and Mme. A. sat in two arm-chairs opposite to each other, Mme. A. with a green shade in front of her.  Her eyes were very bad; she could neither read nor work.  She had been a beautiful musician, and still played occasionally, by heart, the classics.  I loved to hear her play Beethoven and Handel, such a delicate, old-fashioned touch.  Music was at once a bond of union.  I often sang for her, and she liked everything I sang—­Italian stornelli, old-fashioned American negro songs, and even the very light modern French chansonnette, when there was any melody in them.  There were two other arm-chairs at the table, destined for W. and me.  I will say W. never occupied his.  He would sit for about half an hour with M. A. and talk politics or local matters with him, but after that he departed to his own quarters, and I remained with the old people.  I felt very strange at first, it was so unlike anything I had ever seen, so different from my home life, where we were a happy, noisy family, always one of the party, generally two, at the piano, everybody laughing, talking, and enjoying life, and always a troop of visitors, cousins innumerable and friends.