hought me that there might be some difficulty in
obtaining access to the premises, and mentioned my fears on this
point. He replied that, in fact, unless I had personal knowledge of the
superintendent, Monsieur Maillard, or some credential in the way of
a letter, a difficulty might be found to exist, as the regulations of
these private mad-houses were more rigid than the public hospital laws.
For himself, he added, he had, some years since, made the acquaintance
of Maillard, and would so far assist me as to ride up to the door and
introduce me; although his feelings on the subject of lunacy would not
permit of his entering the house.

I thanked him, and, turning from the main road, we entered a grass-grown
by-path, which, in half an hour, nearly lost itself in a dense forest,
clothing the base of a mountain. Through this dank and gloomy wood we
rode some two miles, when the Maison de Sante came in view. It was a
fantastic chateau, much dilapidated, and indeed scarcely tenantable
through age and neglect. Its aspect inspired me with absolute dread,
and, checking my horse, I half resolved to turn back. I soon, however,
grew ashamed of my weakness, and proceeded.

As we rode up to the gate-way, I perceived it slightly open, and the
visage of a man peering through. In an instant afterward, this man came
forth, accosted my companion by name, shook him cordially by the hand,
and begged him to alight. It was Monsieur Maillard himself. He was
a portly, fine-looking gentleman of the old school, with a polished
manner, and a certain air of gravity, dignity, and authority which was
very impressive.

My friend, having presented me, mentioned my desire to inspect the
establishment, and received Monsieur Maillard's assurance that he would
show me all attention, now took leave, and I saw him no more.

When he had gone, the superintendent ushered me into a small and
exceedingly neat parlor, containing, among other indications of refined
taste, many books, drawings, pots of flowers, and musical instruments.
A cheerful fire blazed upon the hearth. At a piano, singing an aria
from Bellini, sat a young and very beautiful woman, who, at my entrance,
paused in her song, and received me with graceful courtesy. Her voice
was low, and her whole manner subdued. I thought, too, that I perceived
the traces of sorrow in her countenance, which was excessively, although
to my taste, not unpleasingly, pale. She was attired in deep mourning,
and exc