frescoed; the pretty chambers were in the rococo taste of the fine old
rococo time, with successive scenes of the same history painted over the
fireplaces throughout the suite; the drawing-room was elegant with silk
hangings and carved mirrors; and the noble staircase, whose landing was
honored with the bust of the French king of the château's period, looked
as if that prince had just mounted it. All these splendors, with the
modern comfort of hot and cold water wherever needed, you may have, if
you like, for $500 a year; and none of the castles I saw compared with
this château in richness of finish or furnishing. I am rather particular
to advertise it because a question, painfully debating itself in my mind
throughout my visit, as to the sum I ought to offer the woman was
awkwardly settled by her refusing to take anything, and I feel a
lingering obligation. But, really, I do not see how the reader, if he
likes solitary state, or has "daughters to educate," or baddish boys to
keep out of mischief, or is wearing out a heavy disappointment, or is
suffering under one of those little stains or uneasy consciences such as
people can manage so much better in Europe--I say I do not see how he
could suit himself more perfectly or more cheaply than in that pensively
superb old château, with its aristocratic seclusion, and possibly
malarious, lovely old garden.

[Illustration: _Tour up the Lake_]


VII

Early in October, before the vintage began, we seized the first fine
day, which the Dent-du-Midi lifted its cap of mists the night before to
promise, and made an early start for the tour of the lake. Mademoiselle
and her cousins came with us, and we all stood together at the steamer's