those who imagine the ideal of art without knowing anything of its
practice.

To reach the chateau of Frapesle, foot-passengers, or those on
horseback, shorten the way by crossing the Charlemagne moors,--

uncultivated tracts of land lying on the summit of the plateau which
separates the valley of the Cher from that of the Indre, and over

which there is a cross-road leading to Champy. These moors are flat
and sandy, and for more than three miles are dreary enough until you

reach, through a clump of woods, the road to Sache, the name of the
township in which Frapesle stands. This road, which joins that of

Chinon beyond Ballan, skirts an undulating plain to the little hamlet
of Artanne. Here we come upon a valley, which begins at Montbazon,

ends at the Loire, and seems to rise and fall,--to bound, as it were,
--beneath the chateaus placed on its double hillsides,--a splendid

emerald cup, in the depths of which flow the serpentine lines of the
river Indre. I gazed at this scene with ineffable delight, for which

the gloomy moor-land and the fatigue of the sandy walk had prepared
me.

"If that woman, the flower of her sex, does indeed inhabit this earth,
she is here, on this spot."

Thus musing, I leaned against a walnut-tree, beneath which I have
rested from that day to this whenever I return to my dear valley.

Beneath that tree, the confidant of my thoughts, I ask myself what
changes there are in me since last I stood there.

My heart deceived me not--she lived there; the first castle that I saw
on the slope of a hill was the dwelling that held her. As I sat

beneath my nut-tree, the mid-day sun was sparkling on the slates of
her roof and the panes of her windows. Her cambric dress made the

white line which I saw among the vines of an arbor. She was, as you
know already without as yet knowing anything, the Lily of this valley,

where she grew for heaven, filling it with the fragrance of her
virtues. Love, infinite love, without other sustenance than the

vision, dimly seen, of which my soul was full, was there, expressed to
me by that long ribbon of water flowing in the sunshine between the

grass-green banks, by the lines of the poplars adorning with their
mobile laces that vale of love, by the oak-woods coming down between

the vineyards to the shore, which the river curved and rounded as it
chose, and by those dim varying horizons as they fled confusedly away.

If you would see nature beautiful and virgin as a bride, go there of a
spring morning. If you would still the bleeding wounds of your heart,

return in the last days of autumn. In the spring, Love beats his wings
beneath the broad blue sky; in the autumn, we think of those who are

no more. The lungs diseased breathe in a blessedpurity; the eyes will
rest on golden copses which impart to the soul their peaceful

stillness. At this moment, when I stood there for the first time, the
mills upon the brooksides gave a voice to the quivering valley; the

poplars were laughing as they swayed; not a cloud was in the sky; the
birds sang, the crickets chirped,--all was melody. Do not ask me again

why I love Touraine. I love it, not as we love our cradle, not as we
love the oasis in a desert; I love it as an artist loves art; I love

it less than I love you; but without Touraine, perhaps I might not now
be living.

Without knowing why, my eyes reverted ever to that white spot, to the
woman who shone in that garden as the bell of a convolvulus shines

amid the underbrush, and wilts if touched. Moved to the soul, I
descended the slope and soon saw a village, which the superabounding

poetry that filled my heart made me fancy without an equal. Imagine
three mills placed among islands of gracefuloutline crowned with

groves of trees and rising from a field of water,--for what other name
can I give to that aquatic vegetation, so verdant, so finely colored,

which carpeted the river, rose above its surface and undulated upon
it, yielding to its caprices and swaying to the turmoil of the water

when the mill-wheels lashed it. Here and there were mounds of gravel,
against which the wavelets broke in fringes that shimmered in the

sunlight. Amaryllis, water-lilies, reeds, and phloxes decorated the
banks with their glorioustapestry. A trembling bridge of rotten

planks, the abutments swathed with flowers, and the hand-rails green
with perennials and velvet mosses drooping to the river but not

falling to it; mouldering boats, fishing-nets; the monotonous sing-
song of a shepherd; ducks paddling among the islands or preening on

the "jard,"--a name given to the coarse sand which the Loire brings
down; the millers, with their caps over one ear, busily loading their

mules,--all these details made the scene before me one of primitive
simplicity. Imagine, also, beyond the bridge two or three farm-houses,

a dove-cote, turtle-doves, thirty or more dilapidated cottages,
separated by gardens, by hedges of honeysuckle, clematis, and jasmine;

a dunghill beside each door, and cocks and hens about the road. Such
is the village of Pont-de-Ruan, a picturesque little hamlet leading up

to an old church full of character, a church of the days of the
Crusades, such a one as painters desire for their pictures. Surround

this scene with ancient walnut-trees and slim young poplars with their
pale-gold leaves; dot graceful buildings here and there along the

grassy slopes where sight is lost beneath the vaporous, warm sky, and
you will have some idea of one of the points of view of this most

lovely region.
I followed the road to Sache along the left bank of the river,

noticing carefully the details of the hills on the opposite shore. At
length I reached a park embellished with centennial trees, which I

knew to be that of Frapesle. I arrived just as the bell was ringing
for breakfast. After the meal, my host, who little suspected that I

had walked from Tours, carried me over his estate, from the borders of
which I saw the valley on all sides under its many aspects,--here

through a vista, there to its broad extent; often my eyes were drawn
to the horizon along the golden blade of the Loire, where the sails

made fantastic figures among the currents as they flew before the
wind. As we mounted a crest I came in sight of the chateau d'Azay,

like a diamond of many facets in a setting of the Indre, standing on
wooden piles concealed by flowers. Farther on, in a hollow, I saw the

romantic masses of the chateau of Sache, a sad retreat though full of
harmony; too sad for the superficial, but dear to a poet with a soul

in pain. I, too, came to love its silence, its great gnarled trees,
and the namelessmysterious influence of its solitaryvalley. But now,

each time that we reached an opening towards the neighboring slope
which gave to view the pretty castle I had first noticed in the

morning, I stopped to look at it with pleasure.
"Hey!" said my host, reading in my eyes the sparkling desires which

youth so ingenuously betrays, "so you scent from afar a pretty woman
as a dog scents game!"

I did not like the speech, but I asked the name of the castle and of
its owner.

"It is Clochegourde," he replied; "a pretty house belonging to the
Comte de Mortsauf, the head of an historic family in Touraine, whose

fortune dates from the days of Louis XI., and whose name tells the
story to which they owe their arms and their distinction. Monsieur de

Mortsauf is descended from a man who survived the gallows. The family
bear: Or, a cross potent and counter-potent sable, charged with a

fleur-de-lis or; and 'Dieu saulve le Roi notre Sire,' for motto. The
count settled here after the return of the emigration. The estate

belongs to his wife, a demoiselle de Lenoncourt, of the house of
Lenoncourt-Givry which is now dying out. Madame de Mortsauf is an only

daughter. The limited fortune of the family contrasts strangely with
the distinction of their names; either from pride, or, possibly, from

necessity, they never leave Clochegourde and see no company. Until now
their attachment to the Bourbons explained this retirement, but the

return of the king has not changed their way of living. When I came to
reside here last year I paid them a visit of courtesy; they returned

it and invited us to dinner; the winter separated us for some months,
and political events kept me away from Frapesle until recently. Madame

de Mortsauf is a woman who would hold the highest position wherever
she might be."

"Does she often come to Tours?"
"She never goes there. However," he added, correcting himself, "she