Sham philosophers, studying themselves while they profess to be studying humanity, call these glorious things extravagance.

They grovel before cotton prints and the tasteless designs of modern industry, as if we were greater and happier in these days than in those of Henri IV., Louis XIV., and Louis XVI., monarchs who have all left the stamp of their reigns upon Les Aigues.

What palace, what royal castle, what mansions, what noble works of art, what gold brocaded stuffs are sacred now?
The petticoats of our grandmothers go to cover the chairs in these degenerate days.

Selfish and thieving interlopers that we are, we pull down everything and plant cabbages where marvels once were rife.

Only yesterday the plough levelled Persan, that magnificent domain which gave a title to one of the most opulent families of the old parliament; hammers have demolished Montmorency, which cost an Italian follower of Napoleon untold sums; Val, the creation of Regnault de Saint-Jean d'Angely, Cassan, built by a mistress of the Prince de Conti; in all, four royal houses have disappeared in the valley of the Oise alone.