cials
felt their hand forced by that clamor, so often stupid, called "public
opinion." The day for the execution was named. In this extremity the
Abbe Dutheil took upon himself to propose to the bishop a last resource,
the adoption of which caused the introduction into this judicial drama
of a remarkable personage, who serves as a bond between all the figures
brought upon the scene of it, and who, by ways familiar to Providence,
was destined to lead Madame Graslin along a path where her virtues were
to shine with greater brilliancy as a noble benefactress and an angelic
Christian woman.

The episcopal palace at Limoges stands on a hill which slopes to the
banks of the Vienne; and its gardens, supported by strong walls topped
with a balustrade, descend to the river by terrace after terrace,
according to the natural lay of the land. The rise of this hill is such
that the suburb of Saint-Etienne on the opposite bank seems to lie at
the foot of the lower terrace. From there, according to the direction in
which a person walks, the Vienne can be seen either in a long stretch
or directly across it, in the midst of a fertile panorama. On the west,
after the river leaves the embankment of the episcopal gardens, it turns
toward the town in a graceful curve which winds around the suburb
of Saint-Martial. At a short distance beyond that suburb is a pretty
country house called Le Cluseau, the walls of which can be seen from
the lower terrace of the bishop's palace, appearing, by an effect of
distance, to blend with the steeples of the suburb. Opposite to Le
Cluseau is the sloping island, covered with poplar and other trees,
which Veronique in her girlish youth had named the Ile de France. To the
east the distance is closed by an ampitheatre of hills.

The magic charm of the site and the rich simplicity of the building
make this episcopal palace one of the most interesting objects in a town
where the other edifices do not shine, either through choice of material
or architecture.

Long familiarized with the aspects which commend these gardens to all
lovers of the picturesque, the Abbe Dutheil, who had induced the Abbe de
Grancour to accompany him, descended from terrace to terrace, paying no
attention to the ruddy colors, the orange tones, the violet tints, which
the setting sun was casting on the old walls and balustrades of the
gardens, on the river beneath them, and, in the distance, on the houses
of the town. He was in search o