“August lady, and dear sister, will you accept my arm?” said Monsieur Henri, bowing and offering his services with the air of Chevalier Bayard. “I thank you, Monsiegneur,” said the ‘august lady,’ suffering him to draw her arm within his own, and lead her on, up the lovely, shadowy walk, through the shrubberies, the pleasure grounds, and the flower gardens. There were so many flowers! especially roses!—‘roses, everywhere roses’—they flushed all the green island with their bloom, and filled all the air with their perfume. They clustered thicker as you approached the white house with its many tall chimneys, and its central front portico. They climbed its posts, and ran along its eaves and cornices, and shaded its windows. “What a beautiful, beautiful place!” said Madame, in rapture. Monsieur Henri led her up the white stone stairs of the portico, through the front door, and into a broad central hall from which several half-open doors on either side revealed glimpses of many spacious rooms in their summer array of straw matting, white curtains, linen covers, and many flowers; while the wide open doors at the back of the hall exposed a pleasant view of gardens, vineyards, and orchards, sloping down to the shore. “Welcome to my court, illustrious Madame,” said Monsieur De L’Ile, opening the first door on his right, and ushering his guest into a pleasant, airy parlor. He led her to an arm-chair, placed her in it, and then rang for attendance. The bell was answered by the appearance of a handsome and even very intellectual-looking mulatto woman, of about thirty years of age, who courtesied and stood waiting. “This is Mademoiselle Madeleine, the first lady of your bed-chamber, Madame,” said Monsieur Henri, presenting the woman to her new mistress. “And now, Mademoiselle, conduct your august mistress to her apartment. Monsieur Louis? Ah, you are there! Deliver the Princess into the charge of Mademoiselle.” The woman took the babe, and bowing to Madame, led the way up stairs to a suite of apartments on the right side of the central hall, whose many windows looked out upon the beautiful pleasure grounds of the Island and upon the surrounding sea, and whose summer furniture was arranged with the nicest regard to comfort and elegance. “My faith, the lunatic knows how to keep house,” thought the lady. Then turning to her attendant, she inquired: “Does your master ever become violent?” “Madame?” “I ask you, does your master ever become ungovernable—dangerous?” “Pardon, I do not understand Madame,” said the woman, gravely and respectfully. “You _will_ not, I suspect,” muttered the lady; then aloud, she asked: “How long has your master been mad?” “Pardon. Madame has been misinformed; my master is not mad.” “Your master is not mad!” exclaimed the lady, in astonishment. “No, Madame,” replied the mulatto, calmly. “You tell me that your master, Monsieur Henri De L’Ile, is not mad?” “Yes, Madame.”