It was the year of grace 1779.

In one of the most beautiful corners of beautiful France stood a grand old chateau.

It was a fine old building, with countless windows large and small, with high-pitched roofs and pointed towers, which in good taste or bad, did its best to be everywhere ornamental, from the gorgon heads which frowned from its turrets to the long row of stables and the fantastic dovecotes.

It stood (as became such a castle) upon an eminence, and looked down.
Very beautiful indeed was what it looked upon.

Terrace below terrace glowed with the most brilliant flowers, and broad flights of steps led from one garden to the other.