Johnston was a connoisseur in bric-à-brac and mediæval art, his studio being head-quarters for the students interested in such matters. He and his coterie had persuaded themselves that a certain lost Velasquez could be traced to the possession of the Courance family, and he was most anxious to visit the château in search of the picture. This and the natural curiosity common to both artists made up motives of appeal too strong to be resisted, and they accordingly allowed their wishes to become known in certain influential quarters. How the affair was managed they never knew, and indeed never inquired, but in due time they received an invitation to join a party coursing for hares in the wastes of La Pontoise, and this they understood as an intimation that their desire to visit Courance was about to be gratified.
The old royal post-road from Paris to Lyons, passing through Fontainebleau, runs nearly due south until it strikes the high banks of a small tributary of the Seine, when it turns south-west and climbs the hills toward Nemours, the next post-town. These hills slope off westward to the desert or waste of La Pontoise, one of those blister-scars, still to be seen in France, left by the feudal system, which stripped the soil of the last grain of fertility and gave nothing in return. La Pontoise was aforetime a grand estate, possessed by a branch of the Foix family, the great ducal house of Nemours. Its farms wasted by the improvidence of the ancien régime, its park and château destroyed by desperate peasantry during the frenzy of '93, there remains nothing now but pine-barrens and furze-patches, with a pile of blackened ruins as a monument of former glory and folly.
Between this sterile, uninhabitable solitude and the precipitous, broken ridge forming the north-eastern boundary of the Loiret lies Courance. No road leads thitherward, no path approaches its forgotten gate. The stream which formerly flowed past the entrance-lodge is dammed up by the fallen bridge and spreads out in a broad morass.
To this uninviting neighborhood came the coursing-party at the time appointed. After a sufficiently successful day's sport the American guests accepted an invitation to pass the night with the mayor of Mont Plésis, the other gentlemen returning to Fontainebleau. Monsieur le Maire loitered by the way until the last of the hunters had disappeared, and then struck off across country toward Courance. Making such haste as the nature of the ground permitted, he directed his course toward a tall chestnut tree, the outlying sentinel of a host of its brethren in the park. Arriving beneath the tree, he dismounted, and was immediately addressed by an old man in peasant costume, whom he presented as Monsieur Gambeau, the intendant of Courance. As the twilight was already falling, the mayor hastened to depart, after cordially commending his charge to the care of the intendant.
Their new host brought out a stout cob from the furze near by, and led the way south-westward. After a silent ride of half a mile or more he dismounted, and, producing a lantern, carefully piloted the horses over a heap of stones overgrown with briers, probably a fallen section of wall giving entrance to the park. Then turning more to the west, they followed a sort of bridle-path leading directly into dense forest, where the fading twilight was wholly obscured and the swinging lantern afforded the only beacon to steer by. The close-growing trees impinged sharply on shins and elbows, and overhanging boughs frequently occasioned still more serious encounters. Patience and temper were nearly exhausted when a sudden glare shot out of the darkness, and the intendant pulled up before an open door whence issued a blaze of light.
A man came from within to take the horses, and was introduced by the intendant as his son Émile and the heir to his office. Émile had the same serious and reserved manner as his father, but he showed more cordiality. He apologized for the poor appearance of the place, saying it had never been more than a keeper's lodge, but that he had endeavored to make it comfortable for them.
The door opened immediately into a good-sized square room, with a wide fireplace occupying half the farther side, having a great fire of logs and branches burning on the hearth. In the middle of the floor stood a solid old oak table, whereon smoked a most inviting supper, served in an incongruous array of quaint and curious dishes and antique vessels—fine glass, splendid silver, broken delft, and translucent porcelain that drew a cry of admiration from the delighted artists.
The intendant thawed out rapidly, warmed by the generous supper and perhaps an extra sip or two of rare old Beaujolais. Allowing himself to be prompted by M. Gambeau junior, he entertained his guests with many a tradition of the Courance family—their heroism in war, their wisdom in peace, their conspicuous splendor at court, their kindness and liberality at home. As to the château and its contents, he knew very little. It stood just as it had been left, with all the appointments of a noble household and a full retinue, but he had never been through the rooms to examine them, and now only entered the place twice a year to go through the form of putting in order the private apartments of the last count, who had given orders that his rooms should be kept ready for his return. There were pictures—yes, a great many pictures—but all black, and some falling from the frames: those in the count's rooms were kept clean, however, and were very pretty—truly, very fine.
The explorers were called early next morning by agreement, and after a breakfast corresponding with the evening meal they were supplied with peasant costume—blue blouse, knit cap and cotton trousers; and being further equipped with a lantern, hatchet and substantial lunch, they set out for the château. The walk was a delightful scramble through the neglected old woods for perhaps half a mile, when a seemingly impenetrable thicket barred the way. M. Gambeau said this was the line of the ancient moat, and they must cut their way through or make a long détour to the rear of the château, the side on which he usually approached. The hatchet was plied vigorously, hands were scratched, clothes torn, many a fall taken and many a fight had with the clinging vines, as they crawled and clambered through, and came out at a fallen wicket in the wall of the courtyard, passing which Château Courance stood close before them.
With exclamations of surprise and pleasure they found, instead of the gray and mouldering ruin they had pictured in expectation, a stately and beautiful mansion of white marble shining in the morning sun, with every outline perfect and clear cut against the blue sky. It seemed for a moment as if the life-scenes of a noble household might be called to animation there if the awakening signal could but be given. But a second glance revealed the assaults of decay and the work of Nature reclaiming that dominion which she concedes to man only for a time.