My father-in-law to be has, you see, no castle, only a simple country house, standing beneath one of our hills, at the entrance of that noble valley, the pride of which is undoubtedly the Castle of Maucombe.  The building is quite unpretentious:  four pebble walls covered with a yellowish wash, and roofed with hollow tiles of a good red, constitute the grange.  The rafters bend under the weight of this brick-kiln.  The windows, inserted casually, without any attempt at symmetry, have enormous shutters, painted yellow.  The garden in which it stands is a Provencal garden, enclosed by low walls, built of big round pebbles set in layers, alternately sloping or upright, according to the artistic taste of the mason, which finds here its only outlet.  The mud in which they are set is falling away in places.

Thanks to an iron railing at the entrance facing the road, this simple farm has a certain air of being a country-seat.  The railing, long sought with tears, is so emaciated that it recalled Sister Angelique to me.  A flight of stone steps leads to the door, which is protected by a pent-house roof, such as no peasant on the Loire would tolerate for his coquettish white stone house, with its blue roof, glittering in the sun.  The garden and surrounding walks are horribly dusty, and the trees seem burnt up.  It is easy to see that for years the Baron’s life has been a mere rising up and going to bed again, day after day, without a thought beyond that of piling up coppers.  He eats the same food as his two servants, a Provencal lad and the old woman who used to wait on his wife.  The rooms are scantily furnished.

Nevertheless, the house of l’Estorade had done its best; the cupboards had been ransacked, and its last man beaten up for the dinner, which was served to us on old silver dishes, blackened and battered.  The exile, my darling pet, is like the railing, emaciated!  He is pale and silent, and bears traces of suffering.  At thirty-seven he might be fifty.  The once beautiful ebon locks of youth are streaked with white like a lark’s wing.  His fine blue eyes are cavernous; he is a little deaf, which suggests the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance.

Spite of all this, I have graciously consented to become Mme. de l’Estorade and to receive a dowry of two hundred and fifty thousand livres, but only on the express condition of being allowed to work my will upon the grange and make a park there.  I have demanded from my father, in set terms, a grant of water, which can be brought thither from Maucombe.  In a month I shall be Mme. de l’Estorade; for, dear, I have made a good impression.  After the snows of Siberia a man is ready enough to see merit in those black eyes, which according to you, used to ripen fruit with a look.  Louis de l’Estorade seems well content to marry the fair Renee de Maucombe—­such is your friend’s splendid title.