rd
of whole. This is the device by which the nobles of Provence elude the
infamous Civil Code of M. de Bonaparte, a code which will drive as many
girls of good family into convents as it will find husbands for. The
French nobility, from the little I have been able to gather, seem to be
divided on these matters.

The dinner, darling, was a first meeting between your sweetheart and the
exile. The Comte de Maucombe's servants donned their old laced
liveries and hats, the coachman his great top-boots; we sat five in the
antiquated carriage, and arrived in state about two o'clock--the dinner
was for three--at the grange, which is the dwelling of the Baron de
l'Estorade.

My father-in-law to be has, you see, no castle, only a simple country
house, standing beneath one of our hills, at the entrance of that noble
valley, the pride of which is undoubtedly the Castle of Maucombe.
The building is quite unpretentious: four pebble walls covered with a
yellowish wash, and roofed with hollow tiles of a good red, constitute
the grange. The rafters bend under the weight of this brick-kiln.
The windows, inserted casually, without any attempt at symmetry, have
enormous shutters, painted yellow. The garden in which it stands is a
Provencal garden, enclosed by low walls, built of big round pebbles set
in layers, alternately sloping or upright, according to the artistic
taste of the mason, which finds here its only outlet. The mud in which
they are set is falling away in places.

Thanks to an iron railing at the entrance facing the road, this simple
farm has a certain air of being a country-seat. The railing, long sought
with tears, is so emaciated that it recalled Sister Angelique to me.
A flight of stone steps leads to the door, which is protected by a
pent-house roof, such as no peasant on the Loire would tolerate for his
coquettish white stone house, with its blue roof, glittering in the sun.
The garden and surrounding walks are horribly dusty, and the trees seem
burnt up. It is easy to see that for years the Baron's life has been a
mere rising up and going to bed again, day after day, without a thought
beyond that of piling up coppers. He eats the same food as his two
servants, a Provencal lad and the old woman who used to wait on his
wife. The rooms are scantily furnished.

Nevertheless, the house of l'Estorade had done its best; the cupboards
had been ransacked, and its last man beaten up for the dinner, which was
served to us on