face, a delicious voice, and a pretty name.

Next morning, after plunging into a cold bath, to the profound
astonishment of the old steward and his wife, the Comte de Camors went to
inspect his farms. He found the buildings very similar in construction to
the dams of beavers, though far less comfortable; but he was amazed to
hear his farmers arguing, in their patois, on the various modes of
culture and crops, like men who were no strangers to all modern
improvements in agriculture. The name of Des Rameures frequently occurred
in the conversation as confirmation of their own theories, or
experiments. M. des Rameures gave preference to this manure, to this
machine for winnowing; this breed of animals was introduced by him. M.
des Rameures did this, M. des Rameures did that, and the farmers did like
him, and found it to their advantage. Camors found the General had not
exaggerated the local importance of this personage, and that it was most
essential to conciliate him. Resolving therefore to call on him during
the day, he went to breakfast.

This duty toward himself fulfilled, the young Count lounged on the
terrace, as he had the evening before, and smoked his cigar. Though it
was near midday, it was doubtful to him whether the solitude and silence
appeared less complete and oppressive than on the preceding night. A
hushed cackling of fowls, the drowsy hum of bees, and the muffled chime
of a distant bell--these were all the sounds to be heard.

Camors lounged on the terrace, dreaming of his club, of the noisy Paris
crowd, of the rumbling omnibuses, of the playbill of the little kiosk, of
the scent of heated asphalt--and the memory of the least of these
enchantments brought infinite peace to his soul. The inhabitant of Paris
has one great blessing, which he does not take into account until he
suffers from its loss--one great half of his existence is filled up
without the least trouble to himself. The all-potent vitality which
ceaselessly envelops him takes away from him in a vast degree the
exertion of amusing himself. The roar of the city, rising like a great
bass around him, fills up the gaps in his thoughts, and never leaves that
disagreeable sensation--a void.

There is no Parisian who is not happy in the belief that he makes all the
noise he hears, writes all the books he reads, edits all the journals on
which he breakfasts, writes all the vaudevilles on which he sups, and
invents all the 'bon mots' he repeats.

B