It was not a garden with little pieces of rockery, little summer-houses, and little terra cotta cows lying in the grass, like those which were so common at that period, in imitation of the rustic style adopted at Trianon. Nor was there an undulating lawn with winding paths, clumps of trees at regular intervals, and truncated columns reflected in limpid ponds, like the garden of the hôtel d'Estrelle, one of the first picturesque attempts at the modern garden _à l'anglaise_. Nor were there the old-fashioned flower-beds and long regular borders of the time of Louis XIV.; everywhere the ground was turned up and cut by Monsieur Antoine's experiments. On all sides were beds in the shape of baskets, hearts, stars, triangles, ovals, shields and trefoils, surrounded by green borders and narrow paths forming a perfect labyrinth. There were flowers of all sorts, beautiful or curious, but deprived of all their national grace by cages made of rushes, nets of wire, umbrellas of reeds, supports and props of all sorts, to protect them from being marred by the dirt, burned by the sun or broken by the wind. His rosebushes, being constantly trimmed and watered, had an artificial look, they were so exceedingly tidy and shiny. His peonies were ball-shaped at the top, like a grenadier's _pompon_, and his tulips shone like metal in the sun. Around the flower-garden were immense, melancholy-looking nurseries, like rows of stakes with scraggy bunches of leaves at the top. All this rejoiced the horticulturist's eyes and banished his gloom. A single corner of his garden, nearest the pavilion occupied by Madame Thierry, afforded a pleasant promenade. That corner he had devoted for twenty years to the acclimatation of exotic ornamental trees. They were beautiful now, and cast considerable shade; but Monsieur Antoine, as it was no longer necessary to take particular pains with them, had almost lost his interest in them, and much preferred a shoot of pine or acacia just raised under glass. His hothouse was wonderfully beautiful. He hurried thither to bury the bitter memories which Marcel had recalled. He went in and out among his favorite plants, the lilies, and, after assuring himself of the good health of those which were in bloom, he halted beside a small porcelain vase wherein an unknown bulb was just beginning to put forth shoots of a dark and glossy green. "What will this be?" he thought. "Will it mark an epoch in the history of gardening, like so many others that owe their fame to me? It seems a long while since anything has happened in my garden, and people don't talk about me so much as they ought to."