In 1595, the royal hunting-parties set forth from this magnificent pavilion, preceded by those fine dogs so dear to Rubens and to Paul Veronese; the huntsmen mounted on high-steeping steeds with stout and blue-white satiny haunches, seen no longer except in Wouverman’s amazing work, followed by footmen in livery; the scene enlivened by whippers-in, wearing the high top-boots with facings and the yellow leathern breeches which have come down to the present day on the canvas of Van der Meulen.  The obelisk was erected in commemoration of the visit of the Bearnais, and his hunt with the beautiful Comtesse de Moret; the date is given below the arms of Navarre.  That jealous woman, whose son was afterwards legitimatized, would not allow the arms of France to figure on the obelisk, regarding them as a rebuke.

At the time of which we write, when the general’s eyes rested on this splendid ruin, moss had gathered for centuries on the four faces of the roof; the hewn-stone courses, mangled by time, seemed to cry with yawning mouths against the profanation; disjointed leaden settings let fall their octagonal panes, so that the windows seemed blind of an eye here and there.  Yellow wallflowers bloomed about the copings; ivy slid its white rootlets into every crevice.

All things bespoke a shameful want of care,—­the seal set by mere life-possessors on the ancient glories that they possess.  Two windows on the first floor were stuffed with hay.  Through another, on the ground-floor, was seen a room filled with tools and logs of wood; while a cow pushed her muzzle through a fourth, proving that Courtecuisse, to avoid having to walk from the pavilion to the pheasantry, had turned the large hall of the central building into a stable,—­a hall with panelled ceiling, and in the centre of each panel the arms of all the various possessors of Les Aigues!

Black and dirty palings disgraced the approach to the pavilion, making square inclosures with plank roofs for pigs, ducks, and hens, the manure of which was taken away every six months.  A few ragged garments were hung to dry on the brambles which boldly grew unchecked here and there.  As the general came along the avenue from the bridge, Madame Courtecuisse was scouring a saucepan in which she had just made her coffee.  The forester, sitting on a chair in the sun, considered his wife as a savage considers his.  When he heard a horse’s hoofs he turned round, saw the count, and seemed taken aback.

“Well, Courtecuisse, my man,” said the general, “I’m not surprised that the peasants cut my woods before Messrs. Gravelot can do so.  So you consider your place a sinecure?”

“Indeed, Monsieur le comte, I have watched the woods so many nights that I’m ill from it.  I’ve got a chill, and I suffer such pain this morning that my wife has just made me a poultice in that saucepan.”

“My good fellow,” said the count, “I don’t know of any pain that a coffee poultice cures except that of hunger.  Listen to me, you rascal!  I rode through my forest yesterday, and then through those of Monsieur de Soulanges and Monsieur de Ronquerolles.  Theirs are carefully watched and preserved, while mine is in a shameful state.”