At length we reached the lofty iron grille of the venerable Abbaye. The ample court was filled with carriages: we felt that we were late, and hastening up the spacious stairs, in a moment found ourselves in a region as different as possible from that we had left. Instead of darkness, we were surrounded by a flood of light; rain and the howling blast were exchanged for smiles and gentle greetings; and the growling thunder of the storm, for the sweet voice of Madame Récamier, which told us however that M. Lafond was not yet arrived.
As the party expected was a large one, it was Miss C——'s noble saloon that received us. It was already nearly full, but its stately monastic doors still continued to open from time to time for the reception of new arrivals—yet still M. Lafond came not.
At length, when disappointment was beginning to take place of expectation, a note arrived from the tragedian to Madame Récamier, stating that the deluge of rain which had fallen rendered the streets of Paris utterly impassable without a carriage, and the same cause made it absolutely impossible to procure one; ergo, we could have no M. Lafond—no Racine.
Such a contre-tems as this, however, is by no means very difficult to bear at the Abbaye-aux-Bois. But Madame Récamier appeared very sorry for it, though nobody else did; and admirable as M. Lafond's reading is known to be, I am persuaded that the idea of her being vexed by his failing to appear caused infinitely more regret to every one present than the loss of a dozen tragedies could have done. And then it was that the spirit of genuine French amabilité shone forth; and in order to chase whatever was disagreeable in this change in the destination of our evening's occupations, one of the gentlemen present most good-humouredly consented to recite some verses of his own, which, both from their own merit, and from the graceful and amiable manner in which they were given, were well calculated to remove every shadow of dissatisfaction from all who heard them.
This example was immediately followed in the same delightful spirit by another, who in like manner gave us more than one proof of his own poetic power, as well as of that charming national amenity of manner which knows so well how to round and polish every rough and jutting corner which untoward accidents may and must occasionally throw across the path of life.
One of the pieces thus recited was an extremely pretty legend, called, if I mistake not, "Les Sœurs Grises," in which there is a sweet and touching description of a female character made up of softness, goodness, and grace. As this description fell trait by trait from the lips of the poet, many an eye turned involuntarily towards Madame Récamier; and the Duchesse d'Abrantes, near whom I was sitting, making a slight movement of the hand in the same direction, said in a half whisper,—
"C'est bien elle!"
On the whole, therefore, our disappointment was but lightly felt; and when we rose to quit this delightful Abbaye-aux-Bois for the last time, all the regret of which we were conscious arose from recollecting how doubtful it was whether we should ever find ourselves within its venerable walls again.