d on the top could see a great
distance over the plains and give warning of the approach of the
enemy. As the day was fine--no mist--we had a beautiful view from the
top, seeing plainly the great round tower of Coucy, the finest ruin in
France--the others made out quite well the towers of the Laon
Cathedral, but those I couldn't distinguish, seeing merely a dark spot
on the horizon which might have been a passing cloud.

Coming back we crossed the "Allee des Soupirs," which has its legend
like so many others in this country: It was called the "Allee des
Soupirs" on account of the tragedy that took place there. The owner of
the chateau at that time--a Comte de Lamothe--discovered his wife on
too intimate terms with his great friend and her cousin; they fought
in the Allee, and the Comte de Lamothe was killed by his friend. The
widow tried to brave it out and lived on for some time at the chateau;
but she was accursed and an evil spell on the place--everything went
wrong and the chateau finally burnt down. The place was then sold to
the de Courval family.

At the end of an hour the Marquise had had enough; I should not think
she was much of a walker; she was struggling along in high-heeled
shoes and proposed that she and I should return to the house and she
would show me her atelier. W. and Mme. de Courval continued their tour
of inspection which was to finish at the Home Farm, where she wanted
to show him some small Breton cows which had just arrived. The atelier
was a charming room; panelled like all the others in a light grey
wood. One hardly saw the walls, for they were covered with pictures,
engravings and a profusion of mirrors in gilt oval frames. It was
evidently a favourite haunt of the Marquise's: books, papers and
painting materials scattered about; the piano open and quantities of
music on the music-stand; miniatures, snuff-boxes and little
old-fashioned bibelots on all the tables, and an embroidery frame, of
course, in one of the windows, near it a basket filled with bright
coloured silks. The miniatures were, almost all, portraits of de
Courvals of every age and in every possible costume: shepherdesses,
court ladies of the time of Louis XV, La Belle Ferronniere with the
jewel on her forehead, men in armour with fine, strongly marked faces;
they must have been a handsome race. It is a pity there is no son to
carry on the name. One daughter-in-law had no children; the other one,
born an American, Mary Ray of