As we rode up to the gate-way, I perceived it slightly open, and the
visage of a man peering through. In an instant afterward, this man
came forth, accosted my companion by name, shook him cordially by the
hand, and begged him to alight. It was Monsieur Maillard himself. He
was a portly, fine-looking gentleman of the old school, with a
polished manner, and a certain air of gravity, dignity, and authority
which was very impressive.

My friend, having presented me, mentioned my desire to inspect the
establishment, and received Monsieur Maillard's assurance that he
would show me all attention, now took leave, and I saw him no more.

When he had gone, the superintendent ushered me into a small and
exceedingly neat parlor, containing, among other indications of
refined taste, many books, drawings, pots of flowers, and musical
instruments. A cheerful fire blazed upon the hearth. At a piano,
singing an aria from Bellini, sat a young and very beautiful woman,
who, at my entrance, paused in her song, and received me with
graceful courtesy. Her voice was low, and her whole manner subdued. I
thought, too, that I perceived the traces of sorrow in her
countenance, which was excessively, although to my taste, not
unpleasingly, pale. She was attired in deep mourning, and excited in
my bosom a feeling of mingled respect, interest, and admiration.

I had heard, at Paris, that the institution of Monsieur Maillard was
managed upon what is vulgarly termed the "system of soothing" -- that
all punishments were avoided -- that even confinement was seldom
resorted to -- that the patients, while secretly watched, were left
much apparent liberty, and that most of them were permitted to roam