ingeniously contrived; and broad terraced walks, now in ruin, though
the steps were broken and the balustrades eaten through with rust,
gave to this sylvan Thebaid a certain character of its own. The art of
man and the picturesqueness of nature had wrought together to produce
a charming effect. Human passions surely could not cross that boundary
of tall oak-trees which shut out the sounds of the outer world, and
screened the fierce heat of the sun from this forest sanctuary.

"What neglect!" said M. d'Albon to himself, after the first sense of
delight in the melancholy aspect of the ruins in the landscape, which
seemed blighted by a curse.

It was like some haunted spot, shunned of men. The twisted ivy stems
clambered everywhere, hiding everything away beneath a luxuriant green
mantle. Moss and lichens, brown and gray, yellow and red, covered the
trees with fantastic patches of color, grew upon the benches in the
garden, overran the roof and the walls of the house. The window-sashes
were weather-worn and warped with age, the balconies were dropping to
pieces, the terraces in ruins. Here and there the folding shutters
hung by a single hinge. The crazy doors would have given way at the
first attempt to force an entrance.

Out in the orchard the neglected fruit-trees were running to wood, the
rambling branches bore no fruit save the glistening mistletoe berries,
and tall plants were growing in the garden walks. All this forlornness
shed a charm across the picture that wrought on the spectator's mind
with an influence like that of some enchanting poem, filling his soul
with dreamy fancies. A poet must have lingered there in deep and
melancholy musings, marveling at the harmony of this wilderness, where
decay had a certain grace of its own.