interesting. Even Lavinia, who "had no soul for Art," as Mat said, looked with real pleasure at a bas-relief of Agnes of Sorel, and pictures of Montaigne, Rabelais, Ninon D'Enclos, Madame de Sévigné, and miniatures of La Fayette and Ben Franklin. The latter gentleman looked rather out of place in such society; but, perhaps, his good old face preached the Dianes and Ninons a silent sermon. His plain suit certainly was a relief to the eye, wearied with periwigged sages and bejewelled sinners.
Here was the little theatre where Rousseau's plays were acted. Here were the gilded chairs in which kings had sat, swords heroes had held, books philosophers had pored over, mirrors that had reflected famous beauties, and painted walls that had looked down on royal revels long ago.
The old kitchen had a fireplace big enough for a dozen cooks to have spoilt gallons of broth in, queer pots and pans, and a handy little window, out of which they could fish at any moment, for the river ran below.
The chapel, chambers, balconies, and terraces were all being repaired; for, thanks to George Sand's grandmother, who owned the place in the