ully restoring to its
former splendour.

The great picture-gallery was the chief attraction; and beginning with
Diane herself--a tall, simpering baggage, with a bow, hounds, crescent,
and a blue sash for drapery--they were led through a rapid review of all
sorts of worthies and unworthies, relics and rubbish, without end.
Portraits are always interesting. Even Lavinia, who 'had no soul for
Art,' as Mat said, looked with real pleasure at a bass-relief of Agnes
of Sorel, and pictures of Montaigne, Rabelais, Ninon d'Enclos, Madame de
Sevigne, and miniatures of La Fayette and Ben Franklin. The latter
gentleman looked rather out of place in such society; but, perhaps, his
good old face preached the Dianes and Ninons a silent sermon. His plain
suit certainly was a relief to the eye, wearied with periwigged sages
and bejewelled sinners.

Here was the little theatre where Rousseau's plays were acted. Here were
the gilded chairs in which kings had sat, swords heroes had held, books
philosophers had pored over, mirrors that had reflected famous beauties,
and painted walls that had looked down on royal revels long ago.

The old kitchen had a fireplace big enough for a dozen cooks to have
spoiled gallons of broth in, queer pots and pans, and a handy little
window, out of which they could fish at any moment, for the river ran
below.

The chapel, chambers, balconies, and terraces were all being repaired;
for, thanks to George Sand's grandmother, who owned the place in the
time of the Revolution, it was spared out of respect to her, and is
still a charming relic of the past.

The ladies went down the mossy steps, leading from the gallery to the
further shore, and, lying under the oaks, whiled away the noon-time by
re-peopling the spot with the shapes that used to inhabit it. A very
happy hour it was, dreaming there by the little river, with the scent of
new-mown hay in the fresh wind, and before them the airy towers and
gables of the old _chateau_ rising from the stream like a vision of
departed splendour, love, and romance.

Having seen every thing, and bought photographs _ad libitum_ of the
wooden-faced lisper, who cheated awfully, the pilgrims drove away,
satiated with relics, royalty, and '_regardez_.'

Another night in the stony-hearted, orange-coloured rooms, with the
sleepless _garcon_ sweeping and murmuring outside like a Banshee, while
the hens roosted sociably in the gallery, the horses seemed to be
champing directl