It was an exception when we found anyone at home when we called in the
neighbourhood, and when we did, it was evident that afternoon visits
were a rarity. We did get in one cold November afternoon, and our
visit was a sample of many others that we paid.

The door was opened by a footman struggling into his coat, with a
handful of faggots in his arms. He ushered us through several bare,
stiff, cold rooms (proportions handsome enough) to a smaller salon,
which the family usually occupied. Then he lighted a fire (which
consisted principally of smoke) and went to summon his mistress. The
living-room was just as bare and stiff as the others, no trace of
anything that looked like habitation or what we should consider
comfort--no books nor work nor flowers (that, however, is
comparatively recent in France). I remember quite well Mme.
Casimir-Périer telling me that when she went with her husband to St.
Petersburg about fifty years ago, one of the things that struck her
most in the Russian salons, was the quantity of green plants and cut
flowers--she had never seen them in France. There were often fine
pictures, tapestries, and furniture, all the chairs in a row against
the wall.

[Illustration: Then he lighted a fire.]

Our visits were always long, as most of the châteaux were at a certain
distance, and we were obliged to stay an hour and a half, sometimes
longer, to rest the horses. It was before the days of five-o'clock
tea. A tray was brought in with sweet wine (Malaga or Vin de Chypre)
and cakes (ladies'-fingers) which evidently had figured often before
on similar occasions. Conversation languished sometimes, though Mme.