All that the first passerby had to do at any hour, was to give it a push.

In the Bishop's own chamber, at the head of his bed, there was a small cupboard, in which Madame Magloire locked up the six silver knives and forks and the big spoon every night. But it is necessary to add, that the key was never removed.

　　The garden, which had been rather spoiled by the ugly buildings which we have mentioned, was composed of four alleys in cross-form, radiating from a tank.

　　Another walk made the circuit of the garden, and skirted the white wall which enclosed it.

　　These alleys left behind them four square plots rimmed with box.

　　In three of these, Madame Magloire cultivated vegetables; in the fourth, the Bishop had planted some flowers; here and there stood a few fruit-trees. Madame Magloire had once remarked, with a sort of gentle malice: "Monseigneur, you who turn everything to account, have, nevertheless, one useless plot.

　　It would be better to grow salads there than bouquets." "Madame Magloire," retorted the Bishop, "you are mistaken. The beautiful is as useful as the useful."

　　He added after a pause, "More so, perhaps."

　　This plot, consisting of three or four beds, occupied the Bishop almost as much as did his books.

　　He liked to pass an hour or two there, trimming, hoeing, and making holes here and there in the earth, into which he dropped seeds.

　　He was not as hostile to insects as a gardener could have wished to see him.

　　Moreover, he made no pretensions to botany; he ignored groups and consistency; he made not the slightest effort to decide between Tournefort and the natural method; he took part neither with the buds against the cotyledons, nor with Jussieu against Linnaeus.

　　He did not study plants; he loved flowers. He respected learned men greatly; he respected the ignorant still more; and, without ever failing in these two respects, he watered his flower-beds every summer evening with a tin watering-pot painted green.

　　The house had not a single door which could be locked.

　　The door of the dining-room, which, as we have said, opened directly on the cathedral square, had formerly been ornamented with locks and bolts like the door of a prison.

　　The Bishop had had all this ironwork removed, and this door was never fastened, either by night or by day, with anything except the latch.

　　All that the first passerby had to do at any hour, was to give it a push.

　　At first, the two women had been very much tried by this door, which was never fastened, but Monsieur de D---- had said to them, "Have bolts put on your rooms, if that will please you."

　　They had ended by sharing his confidence, or by at least acting as though they shared it.

　　Madame Magloire alone had frights from time to time.