le of
the latter half of the last century. Therefore it has that intimate
character of dwellings that have always been inhabited, furnished and
enlivened by the same people. Nothing changes; nothing alters the soul
of the dwelling, from which the furniture has never been taken out, the
tapestries never unnailed, thus becoming worn out, faded, discolored,
on the same walls. None of the old furniture leaves the place; only from
time to time it is moved a little to make room for a new piece, which
enters there like a new-born infant in the midst of brothers and
sisters.

The house is on a hill in the center of a park which slopes down to the
river, where there is a little stone bridge. Beyond the water the fields
stretch out in the distance, and here one can see the cows wandering
around, pasturing on the moist grass; their eyes seem full of the dew,
mist and freshness of the pasture. I love this dwelling, just as one
loves a thing which one ardently desires to possess. I return here every
autumn with infinite delight; I leave with regret.

After I had dined with this friendly family, by whom I was received like
a relative, I asked my friend, Paul Muret: "Which room did you give me
this year?"

"Aunt Rose's room."

An hour later, followed by her three children, two little girls and a
boy, Madame Muret d'Artus installed me in Aunt Rose's room, where I had
not yet slept.

When I was alone I examined the walls, the furniture, the general aspect
of the room, in order to attune my mind to it. I knew it but little,
as I had entered it only once or twice, and I looked indifferently at a
pastel portrait of Aunt Rose, who gave her name to the room.

This old Aunt Rose, with her curls, looking at me from behind the glass,
made very little impression on my mind. She looked to me like a woman
of former days, with principles and precepts as strong on the maxims
of morality as on cooking recipes, one of these old aunts who are
the bugbear of gaiety and the stern and wrinkled angel of provincial
families.

I never had heard her spoken of; I knew nothing of her life or of her
death. Did she belong to this century or to the preceding one? Had she
left this earth after a calm or a stormy existence? Had she given up
to heaven the pure soul of an old maid, the calm soul of a spouse, the
tender one of a mother, or one moved by love? What difference did it
make? The name alone, "Aunt Rose," seemed ridiculous, common, ugly.

I picked