It was in very truth the creation of the queen, this English garden,
and it formed a striking contrast to the solemn, stately hedges, the
straight alleys, the regular flower beds, the carefully walled pools
and brooks, which were habitual in the gardens of Versailles and
Trianon. In the English garden every thing was cosy and natural. The
waters foamed here, and there they gathered themselves together and
stood still; here and there were plants which grew just where the
wind had scattered the seed. Hundreds of the finest trees--willows,
American oaks, acacias, firs--threw their shade abroad, and wrought
a rich diversity in the colors of the foliage. The soil here rose
into gentle hillocks, and there sank in depressions and natural
gorges. All things seemed without order or system, and where art had
done its work, there seemed to be the mere hand of free, unfettered
Nature.
The farther the queen advanced with her companion into the garden,
the more glowing became her countenance, and the more her eyes
beamed with their accustomed fire.
"Is it not beautiful here?" asked she, of the baron, who was walking
silently by her side.
"It is beautiful wherever your majesty is," answered he, with an
almost too tender tone. But the queen did not notice it. Her heart
was filled with an artless joy; she listened with suspended breath
to the trilling song of the birds, warbling their glad hymns of
praise out from the thickets of verdure.
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