Mignonette close at hand--which had bloomed and died and cast its seed amid the old walls and falling stones since Marie Antoinette had taught the women of France to take an interest in their gardens; and from the great plains beyond--flat and fat--carefully laid there by the Garonne to give the world its finest wines, rose up the subtle scent of vines in bloom.
"The drawing-room," said Marie, and making a mock-curtsey toward the door, which stood open to the dim stairs, she made a grand gesture with her hand, still red and wrinkled from the wash-tub.

"Will the King of France be pleased to enter and seat himself?
There are three chairs, but one of them is broken, so his Majesty's suite must stand." With a strident laugh she passed on to the next room through folding doors.
"The principal room," she announced, with that hard irony in her voice, which had, no doubt, penetrated thither from the soul of a mother who had played no small part in the Revolution.

"The guest-chamber, one may say, provided that Monsieur le Marquis will sleep on the floor in the drawing-room, or in the straw down below in the stable." The Abbe threw open the shutter of this room also and stood meekly eyeing Marie with a tolerant smile.

The room was almost bare of furniture.

A bed such as peasants sleep on; a few chairs; a dressing-table tottering against the window-breast, and modestly screened in one corner, the diminutive washing-stand still used in southern France.