“Ah, that is no ruin,” replied C., laughing, “it is just the contrary, for it is an unfinished building. The history of that ‘ruin’ would amuse you, more than all the history of the person whose work it was. The prince calls it the ‘_Folie Princesse_,’ and you shall have the story as we go home.” CHAPTER VI. MIRABEAU—THE PRINCESS T.—THE MAYOR OF VALENÇAY. We alighted from the carriage, and sat down on one of the blocks of stone which lay scattered about in all directions, bearing witness to the gigantic intentions of the projector, and also to the signal failure of the enterprise. C. looked around with sadness. “The sight of this place,” said he, “recalls to mind so much both of pain and pleasure, so many associations for ever lost to Valençay, that I cannot behold it without a certain feeling of melancholy, which I little thought it would ever have inspired. And yet, in spite of all the jesting and merry sarcasm, the bon-mots and epigrams to which the first discovery of the little monument gave rise, it might serve to illustrate my favourite argument, when answering those who attack, by sweeping generalities, the whole life of the prince, and which I frame thus: ‘No man can be so very worthless who has made such friendships as he has done, and won attachments so lasting and so true.’ “It is, in fact, one of the most extraordinary qualifications of this great man, and forms a parallel to what is told of the fascinating influence of Napoleon. His powers of pleasing are so great, that he can with justice boast of never having failed to captivate, where he has been willing to do so, even when having to combat enmity and prejudice. Those who are accustomed to the bland and polished courtesy of his old age can readily imagine that in youth his influence must have been all-powerful. With this fascination of manner he must have also been possessed of the most aristocratic and handsome person, from the dignity of which, strange to say, the deformity of his foot never detracted. He was very fair, of most brilliant yet delicate complexion, with eyes of a soft dark blue, much covered by the lids, which contributed greatly to the air of quiet _recueillement_, misconstrued by many into an expression of cunning, which was habitual to him. His hair has always been considered one of his greatest attractions, being of the bright golden hue, so uncommon even in the north; and when he wore it loose over his shoulders, neither discoloured by powder nor disfigured by the torturing iron of the perruquier, it must have been most beautiful. Even to this very hour, you cannot fail to remark its rich luxuriance. It is not yet wholly white, but merely grey, and its original golden colour still shines bright amid the silver.