ople.'

'It accommodated our father's household,' said St. Aubert, grieved that
the old mansion was to be thus improved, 'and that was not a small one.'

'Our notions are somewhat enlarged since those days,' said M.
Quesnel;--'what was then thought a decent style of living would not now
be endured.' Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words, but
his anger soon yielded to contempt. 'The ground about the chateau is
encumbered with trees; I mean to cut some of them down.'

'Cut down the trees too!' said St. Aubert.

'Certainly. Why should I not? they interrupt my prospects. There is a
chesnut which spreads its branches before the whole south side of the
chateau, and which is so ancient that they tell me the hollow of its
trunk will hold a dozen men. Your enthusiasm will scarcely contend that
there can be either use, or beauty, in such a sapless old tree as this.'

'Good God!' exclaimed St. Aubert, 'you surely will not destroy that
noble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of the
estate! It was in its maturity when the present mansion was built. How
often, in my youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and sat
embowered amidst a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has pattered
above, and not a rain drop reached me! How often I have sat with a book
in my hand, sometimes reading, and sometimes looking out between the
branches upon the wide landscape, and the setting sun, till twilight
came, and brought the birds home to their little nests among the leaves!
How often--but pardon me,' added St. Aubert, recollecting that he was
speaking to a man who could neither comprehend, nor allow his feelings,
'I am talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned as the taste that
would spare that venerable tree.'

'It will certainly come down,' said M. Quesnel; 'I believe I shall plant
some Lombardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that I shall leave
of the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and tells me how
much it adorns a villa of her uncle, not far from Venice.'

'On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,' continued St. Aubert, 'where its
spiry form is intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and where
it plays over light and elegant porticos and colonnades, it,
unquestionably, adorns the scene; but among the giants of the forest,
and near a heavy gothic mansion--'

'Well, my good sir,' said M. Quesnel, 'I will not dispute with you. You
must return to Paris before our ideas can