Nothing has proved useless to them; it seems as if in their love for so beautiful a country—­the only province of France never occupied by foreigners—­they have determined not to lose the least part of its soil, the smallest grain of its sand.  Do you fancy that this ruined tower is inhabited only by hideous night-birds?  No; at the sound of your horse’s hoofs, the smiling face of a young girl peeps out from the ivy, whitened with the dust from the road.  If you climb a hillside covered with vines, a light column of smoke shows you that there is a chimney at your feet; for the very rock is inhabited, and families of vine-dressers breathe in its caverns, sheltered at night by the kindly earth which they laboriously cultivate during the day.  The good people of Touraine are as simple as their life, gentle as the air they breathe, and strong as the powerful earth they dig.  Their countenances, like their characters, have something of the frankness of the true people of St. Louis; their chestnut locks are still long and curve around their ears, as in the stone statues of our old kings; their language is the purest French, with neither slowness, haste, nor accent—­the cradle of the language is there, close to the cradle of the monarchy.

But the left bank of the stream has a more serious aspect; in the distance you see Chambord, which, with its blue domes and little cupolas, appears like some great city of the Orient; there is Chanteloup, raising its graceful pagoda in the air.  Near these a simpler building attracts the eyes of the traveller by its magnificent situation and imposing size; it is the chateau of Chaumont.  Built upon the highest hill of the shore, it frames the broad summit with its lofty walls and its enormous towers; high slate steeples increase their loftiness, and give to the building that conventual air, that religious form of all our old chateaux, which casts an aspect of gravity over the landscape of most of our provinces.  Black and tufted trees surround this ancient mansion, resembling from afar the plumes that encircled the hat of King Henry.  At the foot of the hill, connected with the chateau by a narrow path, lies a pretty village, whose white houses seem to have sprung from the golden sand; a chapel stands halfway up the hill; the lords descended and the villagers ascended to its altar-the region of equality, situated like a neutral spot between poverty and riches, which have been too often opposed to each other in bitter conflict.

Here, one morning in the month of June, 1639, the bell of the chateau having, as usual, rung at midday, the dinner-hour of the family, occurrences of an unusual kind were passing in this ancient dwelling.  The numerous domestics observed that in repeating the morning prayers before the assembled household, the Marechale d’Effiat had spoken with a broken voice and with tears in her eyes, and that she had appeared in a deeper mourning than was customary.  The people of the household and the Italians of the Duchesse