The railroad which runs from Toulouse to Alby stops at Gaillac, and there branches off to the station of Tessounières. Leaving Alby to the right, I came down to Cahuzac about two o'clock. The terminus is about half a league from the village. I was obliged to make this little trip on foot, in company with the mail-carrier, who also took charge of my valise.
The landscape is hilly and abrupt, and has a savage aspect. The road winds through the valley, rises and descends between the wooded mountains, whence peep out here and there some white rocks which indicate a sterile soil.
At a turn in the road, I perceived on an acclivity Cahuzac, whose name vibrates so pleasantly on the ears of Eugénie. From there a carriage conducted me in a few moments to Andillac, a village more than modest, which appeared on my left, with its poor little church, where repose the tombs of Maurice and Eugénie, where she came so often to pray, to weep, to hope, to implore with many tears the salvation of her brother.
Here the road turns off and climbs a hillside. The guide pointed with his finger across the trees on the other side of the ravine to the Château of Cayla, which rises isolated on a graceful eminence. 'Tis a spacious mansion of severe aspect. Nothing distinguishes it from ordinary structures, except a little tower built on one of its angles, which gives it a slightly feudal tinge. Notwithstanding the unobtrusiveness of this manor when seen in its landscape-framing, the effect is laughing and picturesque, thanks to the prestige of poetry, that fairy enchantress who has touched every object in this domain with her golden ring. Here, though the fairy is an angel, it is Eugénie.
The carriage crossed the ravine, and followed the banks of the St. Usson, a little stream which turns the parish mill. It then began the steep ascent to Cayla, and finally stopped before the farm, in the midst of a crowd of chickens, who were cackling and disporting themselves, in the sun, on a litter of straw. A servant came up at that moment from the rabbit-warren on the north side, and politely invited me into the salon, a pretty enough room, opening on the terrace. Some furniture in modern style, white curtains, some wax fruit and flowers, a few paintings on the walls, a little picture of Cayla and its surroundings, on the table a handsome edition of the works of Eugénie and Maurice; this last the most beautiful ornament of this home.
The door opened, and a young lady with a distinguished air and dreamy expression entered. It was Caroline de Guérin, Eugénie's niece, that dear little "Caro" whom she used to rock on her knees, now married to M. Melchior Mâzuc, of a noble and wealthy family of Montpellier. She was soon followed by another person, much older but still sprightly, dressed very humbly, with an expression of extreme sweetness in her countenance, and a modesty yet more lovely, with marked features, lit up by her bright eyes, and a smile uniting extreme delicacy and benevolence.
I introduced myself as coming from America, from Canada, attracted to this remote corner of France by the fame of Eugénie.
"Has the reputation of our Eugénie reached that far?" exclaimed Marie de Guérin, for it was she.
From this moment the conversation did not languish, fed, as it was, by the thousand nothings around which the halo of poetry has been thrown by the author of the Journal.
Just as I rose to take my leave, M. Mâzuc entered, followed by Madame de Guérin, the widow of Erembert. They had summoned M. Mâzuc from the fields, where he had been superintending his vinedressers. He is a man in the strength of age, an old officer in the army of Algiers, with a manly face, energetic look, amiable and impulsive character.