The repast, generously served, seemed to prolong itself for my
benefit. I am more than a fair judge of wine; and my hostess, who
discovered my knowledge in this regard, was friendly enough to open
a certain bottle of Chateau-Margaux in my honour. With deep respect
I drank of this famous and knightly old wine, which comes from the
slopes of Bordeaux, and of which the flavour and exhilarating power
are beyond praise. The ardour of it spread gently through my veins,
and filled me with an almost juvenile animation. Seated beside
Madame de Gabry on the terrace, in the gloaming which gave a charming
melancholy to the park, and lent to every object an air of mystery,
I took pleasure in communicating my impression of the scene to my
hostess. I discoursed with a vivacity quite remarkable on the part
of a man so devoid of imagination as I am. I described to her
spontaneously, without quoting from an old texts, the caressing
melancholy of the evening, and the beauty of that natal earth which
feeds us, not only with bread and wine, but also with ideas,
sentiments, and beliefs, and which will at last take us all back to
her maternal breast again, like so many tired little children at
the close of a long day.

"Monsieur," said the kind lady, "you see these old towers, those
trees, that sky; is it not quite natural that the personage of the
popular tales and folk-songs should have been evoked by such scenes?
Why, over there is the very path which Little Red Riding-hood
followed when she went to the woods to pick nuts. Across this
changeful and always vapoury sky the fairy chariots used to roll;
and the north tower might have sheltered under its pointed roof that
same old spinning woman whose distaff picked the Sleeping Beauty
in the Wood."