It was a curious atmosphere.  I can’t say dull exactly, for both M. and Mme. A. were clever, and the discussions over books, politics, and life generally, were interesting, but it was serious, no vitality, nothing gay, no power of enjoyment.  They had had a great grief in their lives in the loss of an only daughter,[2] which had left permanent traces.  They were very kind and did their best to make me feel at home, and after the first few evenings I didn’t mind.  M. A. had always been in the habit of reading aloud to his wife for an hour every evening after dinner—­the paper, an article in one of the reviews, anything she liked.  I liked that, too, and as I felt more at home used to discuss everything with M. A. He was quite horrified one evening when I said I didn’t like Moliere, didn’t believe anybody did (particularly foreigners), unless they had been brought up to it.

  [2] W.’s first wife.

It really rather worried him.  He proposed to read aloud part of the principal plays, which he chose very carefully, and ended by making a regular cours de Moliere.  He read charmingly, with much spirit, bringing out every touch of humour and fancy, and I was obliged to say I found it most interesting.  We read all sorts of things besides Moliere—­Lundis de Ste.-Beuve, Chateaubriand, some splendid pages on the French Revolution, Taine, Guizot, Mme. de Stael, Lamartine, etc., and sometimes rather light memoirs of the Regence and the light ladies of the eighteenth century, who apparently mixed up politics, religion, literature, and lovers in the most simple style.  These last readings he always prepared beforehand, and I was often surprised at sudden transitions and unfinished conversations which meant that he had suppressed certain passages which he judged too improper for general reading.

He read, one evening, a charming feuilleton of George Sand.  It began:  “Le Baron avait cause politique toute la soiree,” which conversation apparently so exasperated the baronne and a young cousin that they wandered out into the village, which they immediately set by the ears.  The cousin was an excellent mimic of all animals’ noises.  He barked so loud and so viciously that he started all the dogs in the village, who went nearly mad with excitement, and frightened the inhabitants out of their wits.  Every window was opened, the cure, the garde champetre, the school-master, all peering out anxiously into the night, and asking what was happening.  Was it tramps, or a travelling circus, or a bear escaped from his showman, or perhaps a wolf?  I have wished sometimes since, when I have heard various barons talking politics, that I, too, could wander out into the night and seek distraction outside.