The day had been rather oppressive for a May morning; and we were getting far into the afternoon, when clouds began to gather, and the sun became occasionally obscured.  We seated ourselves upon a grassy hillock, and began to prepare for dinner.  To the left of us lay a huge pile of fragments of pillars and groinings of arches—­the effects of recent havoc:  to the right, within three yards, was the very spot in which the celebrated AGNES SOREL, Mistress of Charles VII, lay entombed:[82]—­not a relic of mausoleum now marking the place where, formerly, the sculptor had exhibited the choicest efforts of his art, and the devotee had repaired to

Breathe a prayer for her soul—­and pass on!

What a contrast to the present aspect of things!—­to the mixed rubbish and wild flowers with which every spot is now well nigh covered!  The mistress of the inn having furnished us with napkins and tumblers, we partook of our dinner, surrounded by the objects just described, with no ordinary sensations.  The air now became oppressive; when, looking through the few remaining unglazed mullions of the windows, I observed that the clouds grew blacker and blacker, while a faint rumbling of thunder reached our ears.  The sun however yet shone gaily, although partially; and as the storm neared us, it floated as it were round the abbey, affording—­by means of its purple, dark colour, contrasted with the pale tint of the walls,—­one of the most beautiful painter-like effects imaginable.  In an instant almost—­and as if touched by the wand of a mighty necromancer—­the whole scene became metamorphosed.  The thunder growled, but only growled; and the threatening phalanx of sulphur-charged clouds rolled away, and melted into the quiet uniform tint which usually precedes sun-set.  Dinner being dispatched, I rose to make a thorough examination of the ruins which had survived ... not only the Revolution, but the cupidity of the present owner of the soil—­who is a rich man, living at Rouen—­and who loves to dispose of any portion of the stone, whether standing or prostrate, for the sake of the lucre, however trifling, which arises from the sale.  Surely the whole corporation of the city of Rouen, with the mayor at their head, ought to stand between this ruthless, rich man, and the abbey—­the victim of his brutal avarice and want of taste.[83]

The situation of the abbey is delightful.  It lies at the bottom of some gently undulating hills, within two or three hundred yards of the Seine.  The river here runs gently, in a serpentine direction, at the foot of wood-covered hills—­and all seemed, from our elevated station, indicative of fruitfulness, of gaiety, and of prosperity,—­all—­save the mournful and magnificent remains of the venerable abbey whereon we gazed!  In fact, this abbey exists only as a shell.  I descended, strolled about the village, and mingled in the conversation of the villagers.  It was a lovely approach of evening—­and men, women, and children were seated, or sauntering,