nourishing the lichen and giving tone to the cracks and crevices where the eye delights to wander.  Here you see the Italian pine, the stone pine, with its red bark and its majestic parasol; here a cedar two hundred years old, weeping willows, a Norway spruce, and a beech which overtops them all; and there, in front of the main tower, some very singular shrubs,—­a yew trimmed in a way that recalls some long-decayed garden of old France, and magnolias with hortensias at their feet.  In short, the place is the Invalides of the heroes of horticulture, once the fashion and now forgotten, like all other heroes.

A chimney, with curious copings, which was sending forth great volumes of smoke, assured me that this delightful scene was not an opera setting.  A kitchen reveals human beings.  Now imagine me, Blondet, who shiver as if in the polar regions at Saint-Cloud, in the midst of this glowing Burgundian climate.  The sun sends down its warmest rays, the king-fisher watches on the shores of the pond, the cricket chirps, the grain-pods burst, the poppy drops its morphia in glutinous tears, and all are clearly defined on the dark-blue ether.  Above the ruddy soil of the terraces flames that joyous natural punch which intoxicates the insects and the flowers and dazzles our eyes and browns our faces.  The grape is beading, its tendrils fall in a veil of threads whose delicacy puts to shame the lace-makers.  Beside the house blue larkspur, nasturtium, and sweet-peas are blooming.  From a distance orange-trees and tuberoses scent the air.  After the poetic exhalations of the woods (a gradual preparation) came the delectable pastilles of this botanic seraglio.

Standing on the portico, like the queen of flowers, behold a woman robed in white, with hair unpowdered, holding a parasol lined with white silk, but herself whiter than the silk, whiter than the lilies at her feet, whiter than the starry jasmine that climbed the balustrade,—­a woman, a Frenchwoman born in Russia, who said as I approached her, “I had almost given you up.”  She had seen me as I left the copse.  With what perfection do all women, even the most guileless, understand the arrangement of a scenic effect?  The movements of the servants, who were preparing to serve breakfast, showed me that the meal had been delayed until after the arrival of the diligence.  She had not ventured to come to meet me.

Is this not our dream,—­the dream of all lovers of the beautiful, under whatsoever form it comes; the seraphic beauty that Luini put into his Marriage of the Virgin, that noble fresco at Sarono; the beauty that Rubens grasped in the tumult of his “Battle of the Thermodon”; the beauty that five centuries have elaborated in the cathedrals of Seville and Milan; the beauty of the Saracens at Granada, the beauty of Louis XIV. at Versailles, the beauty of the Alps, and that of this Limagne in which I stand?