The Countess de Moncar had just inherited—by the death of an uncle, who had lived at a great distance, and was little regretted by her—an old castle which she had never even seen, although it was scarcely fifteen leagues from her own summer residence. Madame de Moncar, one of the most elegant, perhaps one of the prettiest women in Paris, was not very fond of the country. Leaving Paris in the end of June and returning in the beginning of October, she usually took with her to Morvan some of the companions of her winter amusements, and some gallants chosen from the most attentive of her partners in the dance. Madame de Moncar was married to a man much older than herself, and one who very seldom favored her with his company. Without abusing the liberty allowed her, she was charmingly coquettish; could trifle admirably, and be made happy by a compliment, a tender word, or the success of an hour; loving the dance for the pleasure of making herself agreeable, loving the very love she inspired, to see the flower which had fallen from her bouquet handed to her, and when occasionally some sober old relation mildly remonstrated with her, “_Mon dieu_,” she would reply, “let me laugh and live gayly, it is at least less dangerous than to remain in solitude listening to the beatings of one’s own heart—as for me, I scarcely know whether I possess one.” The fact is, the Countess de Moncar had never thought about the matter at all; it was all important for her that she should remain in doubt on the subject, and she found the most prudent method was never to allow herself time for reflection. One beautiful morning, then, in the month of September, she and her guests started on a visit to the unknown castle, intending to spend the day. A cross-road, which had been represented to them as passable, would reduce their journey to twelve leagues, and was therefore resolved on. The cross-road was shockingly bad, they lost their way in the woods, one of the coaches broke down, and it was not until mid-day that our travelers, overcome with fatigue, and little enraptured with the picturesque beauties of the route, reached the castle of Burcy, the appearance of which was not calculated to console them for the troubles of their journey. It was a large structure, with blackened walls, in front of the steps a kitchen-garden, then uncultivated, sloped from terrace to terrace, for the castle being almost buried in the sides of a wooded hill had no level space around it. Craggy mountains begirt it on every side, and the trees springing up amid the rocks lent a sombre verdure that was sad to look upon. Its forsaken condition added still more to the disorder of its natural wildness. Madame de Moncar stood riveted in amazement on the threshold of this old castle.