as far as the foot of the slope, and a
hidden fountain sent cascades dancing from one to the other.

From the manor-house which preserved the grace of a superannuated
coquette down to the grottos encrusted with shell-work, where
slumbered the loves of a bygone age, everything in this antique
demesne had retained the physiognomy of former days. Everything seemed
to speak still of ancient customs, of the manners of long ago, of
faded gallantries, and of the elegant trivialities so dear to our
grandmothers.

In a parlor in the style of Louis XV, whose walls were covered with
shepherds paying court to shepherdesses, beautiful ladies in
hoop-petticoats, and gallant gentlemen in wigs, a very old woman who
seemed dead as soon as she ceased to move was almost lying down in a
large easy-chair, while her thin, mummy-like hands hung down, one at
each side of her.

Her eyes were gazing languidly towards the distant horizon as if they
sought to follow through the park visions of her youth. Through the
open window every now and then came a breath of air laden with the
scent of grass and the perfume of flowers. It made her white locks
flutter around her wrinkled forehead and old memories, through her
brain.

Beside her on a tapestried stool, a young girl with long, fair hair
hanging in plaits over her neck, was embroidering an altar-cloth.
There was a pensive expression in her eyes, and it was easy to see
that, while her agile fingers worked, her brain was busy with
thoughts.

But the old lady suddenly turned round her head.

"Berthe," she said, "read something out of the newspapers for me, so
that I may still know sometimes what is happening in the world."

The young girl took up a newspaper, and cast a rapid glance over it.

"There is a great deal about politics, grandmamma; am I to pass it
by?"

"Yes, yes, darling. Are there no accounts of love affairs? Is
gallantry, then, dead in France, that they no longer talk about
abductions or adventures as they did formerly?"

The girl made a long search through the columns of the newspaper.

"Here is one," she said. "It is entitled: 'A Love-Drama!'"

The old woman smiled through her wrinkles. "Read that for me," she
said.

And Berthe commenced. It was a case of vitriol-throwing. A wife, in
order to avenge herself on her husband's mistress, had burned her face
and eyes. She had left the Assize Court acquitted, declared to be
innocent, amid the applause of the crowd.

The