THE LURE OF THE GARDEN 
the summer days of Marie Antoinette at the little 
Trianon was a silk and satin simplicity, with diamonds 
for dewdrops. The gardens were as artificial as the 
manners, and tree and flower almost as far removed 
from their purely natural condition as were the lords 
and ladies from the naked freedom of Adam and Eve. 
There is a story somewhere in St. Simon’s Memoirs 
concerning a duchess who hated the confinement of a 
room, and who always led her lover forth into the 
garden, wandering with him along winding paths where 
the larkspurs, hedges, and rose-trees grew so tall as to 
hide from view whoever passed between them. Be¬ 
hind the dreaming pair, at a discreet distance, followed 
a servant with a rake, whose duty it was to carefully 
obliterate the footprints of the lovers, and to leave the 
path as smooth and fair as though no human feet had 
ever touched it. This garden of the vanished steps 
was a place covering several acres, and sloping down 
from the chateau in a series of terraces, with marble 
fountains in the center of each throwing fantastic jets 
of water high into the air, and surrounded by rows of 
formal trees and beds of flowers as brilliant as jewels. 
Another lady is said to have dearly loved the moon¬ 
light, and to have given several exquisite entertain¬ 
ments in her gardens by its soft illumination. On one 
such occasion all the guests were asked to come in 
white raiment. The costumes were of white satin, 
cloth of silver, and embroidered silks, while the only 
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