For the days are gone by when
the Seigneur ruled and profited. 'Le Seigneur,' says the old
formula, 'enferme ses manants comme sous porte et gonds, du ciel a la
terre. Tout est a lui, foret chenue, oiseau dans l'air, poisson dans
l'eau, bete an buisson, l'onde qui coule, la cloche dont le son au
loin roule.' Such was his old state of sovereignty, a local god
rather than a mere king. And now you may ask yourself where he is,
and look round for vestiges of my late lord, and in all the country-
side there is no trace of him but his forlorn and fallen mansion. At
the end of a long avenue, now sown with grain, in the midst of a
close full of cypresses and lilacs, ducks and crowing chanticleers
and droning bees, the old chateau lifts its red chimneys and peaked
roofs and turning vanes into the wind and sun. There is a glad
spring bustle in the air, perhaps, and the lilacs are all in flower,
and the creepers green about the broken balustrade: but no spring
shall revive the honour of the place. Old women of the people,
little, children of the people, saunter and gambol in the walled
court or feed the ducks in the neglected moat.
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