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Saint Hibaut, ah! the moment the pen traces that dear name my aching heart beats and throbs within my breast before my eyes pass to and fro the memories of a vanished world I seem to feel the fresh and odorous breezes from thy flowers, thy mossy banks and scented shrubs, and hear thy murmuring rills and the dash of thy wild torrents. St.
Castle of Bazoche Maréchal de Vauban Relics of the old Marshal Memorials of Philipsburg Hôtel de Bazarne Madame de Pompadour's maître d'hôtel Proof of the curés' grief Farm of St. Hibaut Youthful recollections Monsieur de Cheribalde Navarre the Four-Pounder His culverin.
Hibaut The dead colt The onset Scene in the morning Horrible accident The gallant farmer Death of the wolves, the dogs, and the peasant The wolf-skin drum Anathema of the naturalists.
To the north of Bazarne, and on the road to the best district for sport, is seen at the foot of the gray mountains peeping cheerily, and like a white flower amidst the sombre foliage of the chestnut-trees, St. Hibaut, an immense farm, situated in an isolated spot, and built of the lava from an extinct volcano.
Saint Hibaut, situated in a wild country, surrounded by lonely heaths and deep ravines, and water-courses whose sides are covered by almost impenetrable thickets, was at the time I speak of, that is to say, when I was eighteen years of age, the property of Monsieur de Cheribalde, the most intrepid, determined and ardent sportsman, who ever winded a horn, wore a huntsman's knife, or whistled a dog.
Hibaut to sleep; music that would I doubt not have reduced even the formidable proportions of the inimitable Lablache, and made Mario sing out of tune. But these were the good old times, the good old times!
Hibaut! lovely spot where flew so swiftly and so sweetly the brightest and gayest hours of my early years St. Hibaut, the memory of thee burns within my heart: but those within thy walls, do they still think of me?
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