must have been the joy of some country
gentleman devoted to roses and tulips, in a word, to horticulture, but
above all a lover of choice fruit. An arbor is visible, or rather
the wreck of an arbor, and under it a table still stands not entirely
destroyed by time. At the aspect of this garden that is no more, the
negative joys of the peaceful life of the provinces may be divined as we
divine the history of a worthy tradesman when we read the epitaph on his
tomb. To complete the mournful and tender impressions which seize the
soul, on one of the walls there is a sundial graced with this homely
Christian motto, '_Ultimam cogita_.'

"The roof of this house is dreadfully dilapidated; the outside shutters
are always closed; the balconies are hung with swallows' nests; the
doors are for ever shut. Straggling grasses have outlined the flagstones
of the steps with green; the ironwork is rusty. Moon and sun, winter,
summer, and snow have eaten into the wood, warped the boards, peeled
off the paint. The dreary silence is broken only by birds and cats,
polecats, rats, and mice, free to scamper round, and fight, and eat each
other. An invisible hand has written over it all: 'Mystery.'

"If, prompted by curiosity, you go to look at this house from the
street, you will see a large gate, with a round-arched top; the children
have made many holes in it. I learned later that this door had been
blocked for ten years. Through these irregular breaches you will see
that the side towards the courtyard is in perfect harmony with the side
towards the garden. The same ruin prevails. Tufts of weeds outline
the paving-stones; the walls are scored by enormous cracks, and the
blackened coping is laced with a thousand festoons of pellitory. The
stone steps are disjointed; the bell-cord is rotten; the gutter-spouts
broken. What fire from heaven could have fallen there? By what decree
has salt been sown on this dwelling? Has God been mocked here? Or was
France betrayed? These are the questions we ask ourselves. Reptiles
crawl over it, but give no reply. This empty and deserted house is a
vast enigma of which the answer is known to none.

"It was formerly a little domain, held in fief, and is known as La
Grande Breteche. During my stay at Vendome, where Despleins had left me
in charge of a rich patient, the sight of this strange dwelling became
one of my keenest pleasures. Was it not far better than a ruin? Certain
memories of indisputable authentici