they could see, in the midst of a large park, a building constructed
in the style of the monasteries of old. "How those rascals the monks
knew how to choose their sites!"

This last exclamation was an expression of surprise and pleasure at
the poetical hermitage which met his eyes. The house stood on the
slope of the mountain, at the summit of which is the village of
Nerville. The great centennial oaks of the forest which encircled the
dwelling made the place an absolute solitude. The main building,
formerly occupied by the monks, faced south. The park seemed to have
about forty acres. Near the house lay a succession of green meadows,
charmingly crossed by several clear rivulets, with here and there a
piece of water naturally placed without the least apparent artifice.
Trees of elegant shape and varied foliage were distributed about.
Grottos, cleverly managed, and massive terraces with dilapidated steps
and rusty railings, gave a peculiar character to this lone retreat.
Art had harmonized her constructions with the picturesque effects of
nature. Human passions seemed to die at the feet of those great trees,
which guarded this asylum from the tumult of the world as they shaded
it from the fires of the sun.

"How desolate!" thought Monsieur d'Albon, observing the sombre
expression which the ancient building gave to the landscape, gloomy as
though a curse were on it. It seemed a fatal spot deserted by man. Ivy
had stretched its tortuous muscles, covered by its rich green mantle,
everywhere. Brown or green, red or yellow mosses and lichen spread
their romantic tints on trees and seats and roofs and stones. The
crumbling window-casings were hollowed by rain, defaced by time; the
balconies were broken, the terraces demolished. Some of the outside
shutters hung from a single hinge. The rotten doors seemed quite