“I mean to expend thirty or forty thousand livres on improvements,” said M. Quesnel, without seeming to notice the words of St. Aubert; “for I design, next summer, to bring here my friends, the Duke de Durefort and the Marquis Ramont, to pass a month or two with me.” To St. Aubert’s enquiry, as to these intended improvements, he replied, that he should take down the whole east wing of the château, and raise upon the site a set of stables. “Then I shall build,” said he, “a salle à manger, a salon, a salle au commune, and a number of rooms for servants; for at present there is not accommodation for a third part of my own people.” 

 “It accommodated our father’s household,” said St. Aubert, grieved that the old mansion was to be thus improved, “and that was not a small one.” 

 “Our notions are somewhat enlarged since those days,” said M. Quesnel;—“what was then thought a decent style of living would not now be endured.” Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words, but his anger soon yielded to contempt. “The ground about the château is encumbered with trees; I mean to cut some of them down.” 

 “Cut down the trees too!” said St. Aubert. 

 “Certainly. Why should I not? they interrupt my prospects. There is a chesnut which spreads its branches before the whole south side of the château, and which is so ancient that they tell me the hollow of its trunk will hold a dozen men. Your enthusiasm will scarcely contend that there can be either use, or beauty, in such a sapless old tree as this.” 

 “Good God!” exclaimed St. Aubert, “you surely will not destroy that noble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of the estate! It was in its maturity when the present mansion was built. How often, in my youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and sat embowered amidst a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has pattered above, and not a rain drop reached me! How often I have sat with a book in my hand, sometimes reading, and sometimes looking out between the branches upon the wide landscape, and the setting sun, till twilight came, and brought the birds home to their little nests among the leaves! How often—but pardon me,” added St. Aubert, recollecting that he was speaking to a man who could neither comprehend, nor allow his feelings, “I am talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned as the taste that would spare that venerable tree.” 

 “It will certainly come down,” said M. Quesnel; “I believe I shall plant some Lombardy poplars among 

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