But what pleased me above all was that this luxuriousness, which one might expect to find in a city residence, was in such a delightful contrast to the almost wild solitude of the place, especially contrasting with the grand, though pleasing, landscape which could be seen from the windows of the salon. It was an immense prairie of the beautiful fresh green grass that I had already so much admired. Across this field meandered a clear and swiftly running river, doubtless the one I had crossed so many times before arriving at ----. On each side of the meadow extended a great curtain of oaks and of lindens, leafy and green to the very ground, while two or three groups of silvery-barked birch-trees were studded here and there over the field, where several fine Swiss cattle were peacefully grazing; finally, on the horizon overlooking several ranges of hills, one could see the cloudy and bluish crests of the mountains which form the last of the chain of the Eastern Pyrenees. The view was truly magnificent, and, as I have said, this grandiose nature, framed as it was in the satin and gold of this pretty salon, had a most singular effect on me. "This is the salon," said the curé, and then we entered the greenhouse, which was built of rustic wood. There we saw a great number of exotic plants planted deeply in the ground, so that in winter this conservatory must have looked like a beautiful alley in a garden. There was a door at the far end of the alley, before which the curé stopped. Instead of opening the door he retraced his steps. But I said to him, pointing to the door, which was beautifully carved in a Gothic design,--Flemish work no doubt, for it was as delicate as lace,--"Where does that door lead to, monsieur? Can one not see that apartment?" "You can see it, monsieur, if--you absolutely desire to do so," said the curé, with a sort of grieved impatience. "I certainly wish to see it, monsieur," I replied; for the more closely I examined the house the more interested I was becoming. All that I had so far seen had revealed to me not only the greatest elegance and refinement, but noble habits of art and of poetry. I felt sure that no vulgar mind could have so selected and so ornamented his residence. "Be so kind then, monsieur, as to enter without me," said the abbé, as he handed me a key. "It was her--" Then with an effort controlling himself, he said, "It is the morning-room, the living-room." I entered. The room, which had evidently been ordinarily used by a woman, had remained in absolutely the same condition in which its occupant had left it. On a tapestry frame was a half finished piece of embroidery; further on stood a harp before a music-stand still laden with music; on a table were a vinaigrette and an unfolded handkerchief; an open book was lying on the workbasket. I looked at it: it was the second volume of "Obermann."