Beauty in the wood.

Following the silent valet, M. Coignard whispered to me:

"I confess, my son, that this lodging has no smiling appearance. It
shows the ruggedness wherein the customs of Frenchmen were still
immured in the time of King Henry IV., and it drives the soul to
gloom and nearly to melancholy by the state of forlornness in which
unhappily it has been left. How much sweeter it would be to climb
the enchanted hillocks of Tusculum with the hope of hearing Cicero
discourse of virtue, under the firs and pines of his villa so dear
to the philosopher! And have you not observed, my boy, that all
along yonder road neither taverns nor hostels are to be met with,
and that it would be necessary to cross the bridge and go up the
hill to the Bergeres to get a drink of fresh wine? There is
thereabout a hostel of the _Red Horse_, where, if I remember
well, Madame de St Ernest took me once to dinner in the company of
her monkey and her lover. You can't imagine, Tournebroche, how
excellent the victuals are there. The _Red Horse_ is as well
known for its morning dinners as for the abundance of horses and
carriages which it has on hire. I convinced myself of it when I
followed to the stables a certain wench who seemed to be rather
pretty. But she was not; it would be a truer saying to call her
ugly. But I illuminated her with the colours of my longings. Such is
the condition of men when left to themselves; they err wretchedly.
We are all abused by empty images; we go in chase of dreams and
embrace shadows. In God alone is truth and stability."

Meanwhile we ascended, behind the old servant, the disjointed flight
of steps.