The house is on a hill in the center of a park which slopes down to the
river, where there is a little stone bridge. Beyond the water the fields
stretch out in the distance, and here one can see the cows wandering
around, pasturing on the moist grass; their eyes seem full of the dew,
mist and freshness of the pasture. I love this dwelling, just as one
loves a thing which one ardently desires to possess. I return here every
autumn with infinite delight; I leave with regret.

After I had dined with this friendly family, by whom I was received like
a relative, I asked my friend, Paul Muret: "Which room did you give me
this year?"

"Aunt Rose's room."

An hour later, followed by her three children, two little girls and a
boy, Madame Muret d'Artus installed me in Aunt Rose's room, where I had
not yet slept.

When I was alone I examined the walls, the furniture, the general aspect
of the room, in order to attune my mind to it. I knew it but little, as I
had entered it only once or twice, and I looked indifferently at a pastel
portrait of Aunt Rose, who gave her name to the room.

This old Aunt Rose, with her curls, looking at me from behind the glass,
made very little impression on my mind. She looked to me like a woman of
former days, with principles and precepts as strong on the maxims of
morality as on cooking recipes, one of these old aunts who are the
bugbear of gaiety and the stern and wrinkled angel of provincial
families.

I never had heard her spoken of; I knew nothing of her life or of her
death. Did she belong to this century or to the preceding one? Had she
left this earth after a calm or a stormy existence? Had she given up to
heaven the pure soul of an old maid, the calm soul of a spouse, the
tender one of a mother, or one moved by love? What difference did it
make? The name alone, "Aunt Rose," seemed ridiculous, common, ugly.

I picked up a candle and looked at her severe face, hanging far up in an
old gilt frame. Then, as I found it insignificant, disagreeable, even
unsympathetic, I began to examine the furniture. It dated from the period
of Louis XVI, the Revolution and the Directorate. Not a chair, not a
curtain had entered this room since then, and it gave out the subtle odor
of memories, which is the combined odor of wood, cloth, chairs, hangings,
peculiar to places wherein have lived hearts that have loved and
suffered.

I retired but did not sleep. After I had tossed about for an hour or two,