ys, the pedestals of black, crumbling stone recalled the statues
and urns they had once supported. The little gardens, cut in geometric
figures, stretched out the Greek square of their carpet of foliage on
each level of the terrace. In the squares, the fountains spurted in
pools surrounded by rusted railings, or flowed down triple layers with a
ceaseless murmur. Water everywhere,--in the air, in the ground,
whispering, icy, adding to the cold impression of the landscape, where
the sun seemed a red blotch of color devoid of heat.

They passed under arches of vines, between huge dying trees covered to
the top with winding rings of ivy that clung to the venerable trunks,
veneered with a green and yellow crust. The paths were bounded on one
side by the slope of the hill, from the top of which came the invisible
tinkling of a bell, and where from time to time there appeared on the
blue background of the sky the massive outline of a slowly moving cow.
On the other, a rustic railing of branches painted white bounded the
path and, beyond it, in the valley, lay the dark flower beds with their
melancholy solitude and their fountains that wept day and night in an
atmosphere of old age and abandon. The closely matted brambles stretched
from tree to tree along the slopes. The slender cypresses, the tall
pines with their straight trunks, formed a thick colonnade, a lattice
through which the sunlight flitted, a false unearthly light, that
striped the ground with bands of gold and bars of shadow.

The painter praised the spot enthusiastically. It was the only corner
for artists that could be found in Madrid. It was there that the great
Don Francisco had worked. It seemed as though at some turn in the path
they would run into Goya, sitting before his easel, scowling
ill-naturedly at some dainty duchess who was serving as his model.

Modern clothes seemed out of keeping with this background. Renovales
declared that the correct apparel for such a landscape was a bright
coat, a powdered wig, silk stockings, walking beside a Directoire gown.

The countess smiled as she listened to the painter. She looked about
with great curiosity; that was not a bad walk; she guessed it was the
first time she ever saw it. Very pretty! But she was not fond of the
country.

To her mind the best landscape was the silks of a drawing room and, as
for trees, she preferred the scenery at the Opera to the accompaniment
of music.

"The country bores me, maste