They didn't see much of the curé. He would pay one formal visit in the
course of the year, but there was never any intimacy.

We lived much for ourselves, and for a few months in the year it was a
rest and change from Paris, and the busy, agitated life, social and
political, that one always led there. I liked the space, too, the
great high, empty rooms, with no frivolous little tables and screens
or stuff on the walls, no photograph stands nor fancy vases for
flowers, no bibelot of any kind--large, heavy pieces of furniture
which were always found every morning in exactly the same place. Once
or twice, in later years, I tried to make a few changes, but it was
absolutely useless to contend with a wonderful old servant called
Ferdinand, who was over sixty years old, and had been brought up at
the château, had always remained there with the various owners, and
who knew every nook and corner of the house and everything that was in
it. It was years before I succeeded in talking to him. I used to meet
him sometimes on the stairs and corridors, always running, and
carrying two or three pails and brooms. If he could, he dived into any
open door when he saw me coming, and apparently never heard me when I
spoke, for he never answered. He was a marvellous servant, cleaned the
whole house, opened and shut all the windows night and morning (almost
work enough for one man), lit the calorifères, scrubbed and swept and
polished floors from early dawn until ten o'clock, when we left the
salon. He never lived with the other servants, cooked his own food at
his own hours in his room, and his only companion was a large black
cat, which always followed him about. He did W.'s service, and W. said
that they used to talk about all sorts of things, but I fancy master
and servant were equally reticent and understood each other without
many words.