sions. Good fortune had not
changed her. She was a true peasant of the Rhone valley, independent and
proud, without any of the sly humilities of Balzac's country folk, too
artless to be purse-proud. One pride alone she had--that of showing her
son with what scrupulous care she had discharged her duties as guardian.
Not an atom of dust, not a trace of damp on the walls. All the splendid
ground-floor, the reception-rooms with their hangings of iridescent silk
new out of the dust sheets, the long summer galleries cool and sonorous,
paved with mosaics and furnished with a flowery lightness in the
old-fashioned style, with Louis XIV sofas in cane and silk, the immense
dining-room decorated with palms and flowers, the billiard-room with its
rows of brilliant ivory balls, its crystal chandeliers and its suits
of armour--all the length of the castle, through its tall windows, wide
open to the stately terrace, lay displayed for the admiration of the
visitors. The marvellous beauty of the horizon and the setting sun, its
own serene and peaceful richness, were reflected in the panes of glass
and in the waxed and polished wood with the same clearness as in the
mirror-like ornamental lakes, the pictures of the poplars and the swans.
The setting was so lovely, the whole effect so grand, that the clamorous
and tasteless luxury melted away, disappeared, even to the most
hypercritical eyes.

"There is something to work on," said Cardailhac, the manager, his glass
in his eye, his hat on one side, combining already his stage-effect.
And the haughty air of Monpavon, whom the head-dress of the old woman
receiving them on the terrace had shocked, gave way to a condescending
smile. Here was something to work on, certainly, and, guided by persons
of taste, their friend Jansoulet could really give his Moorish Highness
an exceedingly suitable reception. All the evening they talked of
nothing else. In the sumptuous dining-room, their elbows on the table,
full of meat and drink, they planned and discussed. Cardailhac, who had
great ideas, had already his plan complete.

"First of all, you give me _carte-blanche_, don't you, Nabob?
_Carte-blanche_, old fellow, and make that fat Hemerlingue burst with
envy."

Then the manager explained his scheme. The festivities were to be
divided into days, as at Vaux, when Fouquet entertained Louis XIV. One
day a play; another day Provencal games, dances, bull-fights,
local bands; the third day--And already th