delighted in speaking English, and was not
a little proud to show off that accomplishment
in her circle, where not a word but
pure Burgundian was understood. She had
forgotten almost all she had ever known of
our language; but, the few sentences she spoke
were in an almost perfect accent, and so nearly
in the tone of her friend Sophy, as to be
startling to my ear. I indulged her in the
notion that she had lost none of her former
facility, and never reminded her of the fact
that the greatest part of her words were
French, as she ran on laughing and talking to
the amazement of her friends.

"How well she must speak!" exclaimed
one of the demoiselles Bussy, as the two
antiquated sisters, her especial favourites and
frequent visitors, sat elevating their hands at
her prowess—"how very well! I declare it
seems to me that even I understand half she
says; after all, English is not such a barbarous
jargon when Betsy speaks it!"

These ladies, who were so impressed with
respect for her acquirements, lived in the
village, and spent every evening of their lives
at the chateau; possessing the key of a certain
garden gate, which admitted them without
question or trouble to the terrace on to which
the drawing-room opened. The fourth hand
at the invariable "whisk," in which Betsey
delighted, and without which she could not
have slept, was supplied by Doctor Le Franc,
who, as regularly as the time came, entered
also unannounced, and took his seat at the
table. The Doctor had lived all his life at
Montbard, and had never found time to leave
the province. What he may or might have
been induced to do when the then dreaded
railroad cut up his native valley, I know not;
but, if he be still living, he can run up to
Paris once a week without the inconvenience
that a journey to Dijon, the only metropolis he
knew, used to cause him.

The Doctor was almost the only eligible
single man to be found in that secluded
region; and report said—indeed the Countess
with numerous sly winks and nods herself
hinted to me—that there was some truth
in the rumour that Mademoiselle Clorinde
Bussy had laid siege to his heart for at
least forty years. Why it had been in
vain I afterwards conjectured—but if my
suspicions were true, the ambitious aspirings
of the good and obedient doctor had been
forced to subdue themselves into the purest
platonism. Beyond these guests the widow
had no society; and her infirmities rendering
it impossible for her to enjoy the beautiful
hanging gardens of her domain—which almost
exclusively belonged to the peasantry and the
towns-people—she seldom left the house
except for her yearly visit to the capital,
where she always passed the winter—
Montbard being too damp a residence. In fact the
situation of the house is peculiar. It stands at
the foot of a very high hill, the chief entrance
being in the street of the slovenly little ragged
town; behind it, a well-like court is
surrounded by wings on three sides, and the
mountain rises sheer from a lofty terrace, the
first of several which reach to the summit,
crowned with the fine old tower and a few
walls of the ancient feudal castle that once
occupied the site. Buffon laid out the whole
of these charming gardens himself, and was
the first to throw them open for the convenience
of the townspeople; a custom continued
to the end by the Countess Betsy.

The benevolent naturalist had first
conceived the idea of thus beautifying his ground
for the purpose of giving employment to the
people: many hundreds of whom derived their
support from the works which he watched
and directed with extreme interest. He fitted
up a part of the old tower as a study; and
there, most of his great labours were carried
on. At the revolution his chair and table were
burnt; and, some feeling not to be conquered,
prevented his daughter-in-law from ever
refurnishing "Buffon's study," although the bare
walls are still one of the lions of the place.

Scarcely a week passed without the gairdens
of Montbard being enlivened by a fête of
some kind. Before her infirm health obliged
her to relinquish the custom, it was usual for
Madame de Buffon to sit out on the first
terrace in an easy chair and witness the
gaieties; but, of late years, she had discon-
tinued to do so, and sometimes, from her
windows, looked out at the lively parties
who made her grounds their own, and whose
hilarity and pleasure she enjoyed as much
as they. I saw several wedding processions
ascend the numerous steps to the terraces;
and very gay and bright all the peasants in.
their finery looked, as they went laughingly
along, preceded by their violin, scattering
themselves in groups amongst the orange
trees and flowering shrubs, with which the
garden walks are bordered, in the usual
formal style of French gardening taste. When
these parties reached the solitary spot where
the antique tower rears its giant height
amongst the huge grey rocks, of which it
seems a part, they unpacked their pic-nic
baskets, uncorked their bottles, and regaled
themselves at their leisure; after which they
danced on the green sward shaded by the
fine trees, beneath the castle walls.

Every Sunday the gardens are filled with
the residents of the town and its vicinity;
and the Countess used to ask, with great
interest, how many had come to visit her from
week to week. When stray travellers
appeared, which was not unusual, they wrote
their names in a book in the porter's lodge,
and then it was that the eloquence of the
female gardener, who had chief charge of, and
who exhibited and boasted of the flower
gardens, came into notice. This functionary
is the daughter of the worthy likeness of
Adam wholived there in the time of Buffon
himself, and who died at the age of ninety:
she apologizes for a good deal of slovenliness