rd hung a barometer, excessively ornate, which seems to play a
great part in their existence; Rogron gazed at it as he might at his
future wife. Between the two windows is a white porcelain stove in a
niche overloaded with ornament. The walls glow with a magnificent paper,
crimson and gold, such as you see in the same restaurants, where, no
doubt, the Rogrons chose it. Dinner was served on white and gold china,
with a dessert service of light blue with green flowers, but they showed
us another service in earthenware for everyday use. Opposite to each
sideboard was a large cupboard containing linen. All was clean, new, and
horribly sharp in tone. However, I admit the dining-room; it has some
character, though disagreeable; it represents that of the masters of
the house. But there is no enduring the five engravings that hang on the
walls; the Minister of the Interior ought really to frame a law against
them. One was Poniatowski jumping into the Elster; the others, Napoleon
pointing a cannon, the defence at Clichy, and the two Mazepas, all in
gilt frames of the vulgarest description,--fit to carry off the prize of
disgust. Oh! how much I prefer Madame Julliard's pastels of fruit,
those excellent Louis XV. pastels, which are in keeping with the old
dining-room and its gray panels,--defaced by age, it is true, but they
possess the true provincial characteristics that go well with old
family silver, precious china, and our simple habits. The provinces are
provinces; they are only ridiculous when they mimic Paris. I prefer this
old salon of my husband's forefathers, with its heavy curtains of green
and white damask, the Louis XV. mantelpiece, the twisted pier-glasses,
the old mirrors with their beaded mouldings, and the venerable card
tables. Yes, I prefer my old Sevres vases in royal blue, mounted on
copper, my clock with those impossible flowers, that rococco chandelier,
and the tapestried furniture, to all the finery of the Rogron salon."

"What is the salon like?" said Monsieur Martener, delighted with the
praise the handsome Parisian bestowed so adroitly on the provinces.

"As for the salon, it is all red,--the red Mademoiselle Sylvie turns
when she loses at cards."

"Sylvan-red," said Monsieur Tiphaine, whose sparkling saying long
remained in the vocabulary of Provins.

"Window-curtains, red; furniture, red; mantelpiece, red, veined yellow,
candelabra and clock ditto mounted on bronze, common and heavy in
design,--Rom