Not feeling inclined to sleep, I walked to Montagny to revisit my uncle's house. Sadness fell upon me at the first glimpse of its yellow front and green shutters. Everything looked as before, but I was obliged to go to the farmer's to obtain the key. The shutters once open, I surveyed with emotion the old furniture, polished from time to time, to preserve its lustre, the tall cupboard of walnut, two Flemish paintings said to be the work of an ancient artist, our ancestor, some large prints after Boucher, and a whole series of framed engravings representing scenes from "Emile" and the "New Heloise" by Moreau; on the table was the dog, now stuffed and mounted, that I remembered alive, as the companion of my forest rambles, perhaps the last "Carlin," for it had belonged to that breed now extinct. "As for the parrot," said the farmer, "he is still alive, and I took him home with me." The garden offered a magnificent picture of the growth of wild vegetation, and there in a corner was the plot I had tended as a child. A shudder came over me as I entered the study, which still contained the little library of choice books, familiar friends of him who was no more, and where upon his desk lay antique relics, vases and Roman medals found in the garden,--a local collection, the source of much pleasure to him. "Let us go to see the parrot," I said to the farmer. The parrot clamoured for his breakfast, as in his best days, and gave me a knowing look from his round eye peering out from the wrinkled skin, like the wise glances of the old. Full of sad thoughts awakened by my return to this cherished spot, I felt that I must again see Sylvie, the only living tie which bound me to that region, and once more I took the road to Loisy. It was the middle of the day, and I found them all asleep, worn out by the night of merry-making. It occurred to me that it might divert my thoughts to stroll to Hermenonville, a league distant, by the forest road. It was fine summer weather, and on setting out I was delighted by the freshness and verdure of the path which seemed like the avenue of a park. The green branches of the great oaks were relieved by the white trunks and rustling leaves of the birches. The birds were silent, and I heard no sound but the woodpecker tapping the trees to find a hollow for her nest. At one time I was in danger of losing my way, the characters being wholly effaced on the guide-posts which served to distinguish the roads. Passing the Desert on the left, I came to the dancing-ring where I found the benches of the old men still in place. All the associations of ancient philosophy, revived by the former owner of the demesne, crowded upon me, at the sight of this picturesque realisation of "Anacharsis" and "Emile."