Told in a French Garden | Page 2

and love a country who does not press its earth
beneath his feet,--the Doctor would probably have said, "lay his head
upon its bosom." By an accident--they missed a train--they found
themselves at sunset of a beautiful day in a small village, and with no
possible way of getting back to Paris that night unless they chose to

walk fifteen miles to the nearest railway junction. After a long day's
tramp that seemed too much of a good thing.
So they looked about to find a shelter for the night. The village--it was
only a hamlet--had no hotel, no café, even. Finally an old peasant said
that old Mother Servin--a widow--living a mile up the road--had a big
house, lived alone, and could take them in,--if she wanted to,--he could
not say that she would.
It seemed to them worth trying, so they started off in high spirits to
tramp another mile, deciding that, if worse became worst--well--the
night was warm--they could sleep by the roadside under the stars.
It was near the hour when it should have been dark--but in France at
that season one can almost read out of doors until nine--when they
found the place. With some delay the gate in the stone wall was opened,
and they were face to face with the old widow.
It was a long argument, but the Doctor had a winning way, and at the
end they were taken in,--more, they were fed in the big clean kitchen,
and then each was sheltered in a huge room, with cement floor,
scrupulously clean, with the quaint old furniture and the queer
appointments of a French farmhouse.
The next morning, when the Doctor threw open the heavy wooden
shutters to his window, he gave a whistle of delight to find himself
looking out into what seemed to be a French Paradise--and better than
that he had never asked.
It was a wilderness. Way off in the distance he got glimpses of broken
walls with all kinds of green things creeping and climbing, and hanging
on for life. Inside the walls there was a riot of flowers--hollyhocks and
giroflées, dahlias and phlox, poppies and huge daisies, and roses
everywhere, even climbing old tree trunks, and sprawling all over the
garden front of the rambling house. The edges of the paths had green
borders that told of Corbeil d'Argent in Midwinter, and violets in early
spring. He leaned out and looked along the house. It was just a jumble
of all sorts of buildings which had evidently been added at different

times. It seemed to be on half a dozen elevations, and no two windows
were of the same size, while here and there an outside staircase led up
into a loft.
Once he had taken it in he dressed like a flash--he could not get out into
that garden quickly enough, to pray the Widow to serve coffee under a
huge tree in the centre of the garden, about the trunk of which a rude
table had been built, and it was there that the Divorcée found him when
she came out, simply glowing with enthusiasm--the house, the garden,
the Widow, the day--everything was perfect.
While they were taking their coffee, poured from the earthen jug, in the
thick old Rouen cups, the Divorcée said:
"How I'd love to own a place like this. No one would ever dream of
building such a house. It has taken centuries of accumulated needs to
expand it into being. If one tried to do the thing all at once it would
look too on-purpose. This place looks like a happy combination of
circumstances which could not help itself."
"Well, why not? It might be possible to have just this. Let's ask the
Widow."
So, when they were sitting over their cigarettes, and the old woman was
clearing the table, the Doctor looked her over, and considered the road
of approach.
She was a rugged old woman, well on toward eighty, with a bronzed,
weather-worn face, abundant coarse gray hair, a heavy shapeless figure,
but a firm bearing, in spite of her rounded back. As far as they could
see, they were alone on the place with her. The Doctor decided to jump
right into the subject.
"Mother," he said, "I suppose you don't want to sell this place?"
The old woman eyed him a moment with her sharp dark eyes.
"But, yes, Monsieur," she replied. "I should like it very well, only it is

not possible. No one would be willing to pay my price. Oh, no, no one.
No, indeed."
"Well," said the Doctor, "how do you know that? What is the price?--Is
it permitted to ask?"
The old woman hesitated,--started to speak--changed her mind, and
turned away, muttering. "Oh, no, Monsieur,--it is not worth the
trouble--no one will