ne of the
reviews, anything she liked. I liked that, too, and as I felt more at
home used to discuss everything with M. A. He was quite horrified one
evening when I said I didn't like Moliere, didn't believe anybody did
(particularly foreigners), unless they had been brought up to it.

[2] W.'s first wife.

It really rather worried him. He proposed to read aloud part of the
principal plays, which he chose very carefully, and ended by making a
regular cours de Moliere. He read charmingly, with much spirit,
bringing out every touch of humour and fancy, and I was obliged to say
I found it most interesting. We read all sorts of things besides
Moliere--Lundis de Ste.-Beuve, Chateaubriand, some splendid pages on
the French Revolution, Taine, Guizot, Mme. de Stael, Lamartine, etc.,
and sometimes rather light memoirs of the Regence and the light ladies
of the eighteenth century, who apparently mixed up politics, religion,
literature, and lovers in the most simple style. These last readings
he always prepared beforehand, and I was often surprised at sudden
transitions and unfinished conversations which meant that he had
suppressed certain passages which he judged too improper for general
reading.

He read, one evening, a charming feuilleton of George Sand. It began:
"Le Baron avait cause politique toute la soiree," which conversation
apparently so exasperated the baronne and a young cousin that they
wandered out into the village, which they immediately set by the ears.
The cousin was an excellent mimic of all animals' noises. He barked so
loud and so viciously that he started all the dogs in the village, who
went nearly mad with excitement, and frightened the inhabitants out of
their wits. Every window was opened, the cure, the garde champetre,
the school-master, all peering out anxiously into the night, and
asking what was happening. Was it tramps, or a travelling circus, or a
bear escaped from his showman, or perhaps a wolf? I have wished
sometimes since, when I have heard various barons talking politics,
that I, too, could wander out into the night and seek distraction
outside.

It was a serious life in the big chateau. There was no railway
anywhere near, and very little traffic on the highroad. After
nightfall a mantle of silence seemed to settle on the house and park
that absolute silence of great spaces where you almost hear your own
heart beat. W. went to Paris occasionally, and usually came back by
the last train