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We went up a broad stone staircase, the walls covered with pictures and engravings; one beautiful portrait of her daughter, the Marquise de Chaponay, on horseback. She took me to a large, comfortable room, bright wood fire blazing, and a pretty little dressing-room opening out of it, furnished in a gay, old-fashioned pattern of chintz.
I assured him I had no purpose of any kind I merely said what I thought, which is evidently unwise. Mme. de Chaponay said she was afraid I would find it very difficult sometimes. French people in society at least were so excited against the Republic, anti-religious feeling, etc. "It must be very painful for you."
I found the family assembled in the drawing-room; four women: Mme. de Courval and her daughter, the Marquise de Chaponay, a tall handsome woman, and two other ladies of a certain age; I did not catch their names, but they looked like all the old ladies one always sees in a country house in France.
Both Mme. de Courval and her daughter were very easy and animated. The Marquise de Chaponay told me she had known W. for years, that in the old days before he became such a busy man and so engrossed in politics he used to read Alfred de Musset to her, in her atelier, while she painted. She supposed he read now to me which he certainly never did as he always told me he hated reading aloud.
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