In the kitchen, situated in a wing of the castle, which we visited
later, a maid was peeling vegetables and a scullion was washing dishes,
while the cook was standing in front of the stove, superintending a
reasonable number of shining saucepans. It was all very delightful, and
bespoke the idle and intelligent home life of a gentleman. I like the
owners of Chenonceaux.
In fact, have you not often seen charming old paintings that make you
gaze at them indefinitely, because they portray the period in which
their owners lived, the ballets in which the farthingales of all those
beautiful pink ladies whirled around, and the sword-thrusts which those
noblemen gave each other with their rapiers? Here are some temptations
of history. One would like to know whether those people loved as we do,
and what difference existed between their passions and our own. One
would like them to open their lips and tell their history, tell us
everything they used to do, no matter how futile, and what their cares
and pleasures used to be. It is an irritating and seductive curiosity, a
dreamy desire for knowledge, such as one feels regarding the past life
of a mistress.
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