A young girl, fair as a lily, appeared at a narrow, little window, the one most garlanded by, flowers, on the first floor.  She was clad in a white dressing-gown of some particular shape; I could not at first make out.  With one hand she gathered its folds about her, and with the other restrained her flowing hair.  Hardly had she seen me when she blushed, somewhat ashamed, no doubt, at having been surprised in the midst of her toilet, and, giving a most embarrassed yet charming bow; hurriedly disappeared.  This vision completed the charm; it seemed to me that I had suddenly been transported into fairy-land.  I had fancied when strapping my portmanteau that I should find my friend Oscar installed in one of those pretty, little, smart-looking houses, with green shutters and gilt lightning-conductor, dear to the countrified Parisian, and here I found myself amid an ideal blending of time-worn stones hidden in flowers, ancient gables, and fanciful ironwork reddened by rust.  I was right in the midst of one of Morin’s sketches, and, charmed and stupefied, I stood for some moments with my eyes fixed on the narrow window at which the fair girl had disappeared.

“I call her my little queen,” said Oscar, taking my arm.  “It is my wife.  Come this way, we shall meet my cousin who is fishing, and two other friends who are strolling about in this direction, good fellows, only they do not understand the country as I do—­they have on silk stockings and pumps, but it does not matter, does it?  Would you like a pair of slippers or a straw hat?

“I hope you have brought some linen jackets.  I won’t offer you a glass of Madeira—­we shall dine at once.  Ah! my dear fellow, you have turned up at the right moment; we are going to taste the first melon of the year this evening.”

“Unfortunately, I never eat melons, though I like to see others do so.”

“Well, then, I will offer you consolation by seeking out a bottle of my old Pomard for you.  Between ourselves, I don’t give it to every one; it is a capital wine which my poor father recommended to me on his deathbed; poor father, his eyes were closed, and his head stretched back on the pillow.  I was sitting beside his bed, my hand in his, when I felt it feebly pressed.  His eyes half opened, and I saw him smile.  Then he said in a weak, slow, and the quavering voice of an old man who is dying:  ’The Pomard at the farther end—­on the left—­you know, my boy—­only for friends.’  He pressed my hand again, and, as if exhausted, closed his eyes, though I could see by the imperceptible motion of his lips that he was still smiling inwardly.  Come with me to the cellar,” continued Oscar, after a brief silence, “at the farther end to the left, you shall hold the lantern for me.”

When we came up from the cellar, the bell was ringing furiously, and flocks of startled birds were flying out of the chestnut-trees.  It was for dinner.  All the guests were in the garden.  Oscar introduced me in his off-hand way, and I offered my arm to the mistress of the house to conduct her to the dining-room.