I.

Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte is a dull little town, situated in Cotentin, that long eastern strip of the coast of Normandy which extends directly in front of the lovely isles of Jersey, Guernsey, Alderney, and Sark. Cherbourg lies to the north of it, but we only mention that fact _en passant_; for the incident related in these pages occurred long before the Second Empire, long before Cherbourg attracted visitors to admire its naval displays, long before railways had shortened distances and brought the Cotentinians within daily hearing of their “ne plus ultra” of cities—inimitable Paris. The little towns then slumbered peaceably amidst their corn-fields and apple-orchards; and none slept sounder than Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte, whose very existence was scarcely known beyond the limits of its native district. It was remarkable, indeed, for nothing; its church was old and fine, as most French provincial churches are; the open space around it formed the market-place, deserted and silent except on market-days; and the Grande Rue contained the one hostelry of the town—the Hôtel Royale—and various stores.

But there were also a few cross-streets, interspersed with flowery, bowery gardens, and it is in a house situated in one of these that our

## scene is laid. It was a plain, unpretending dwelling, but large and

exquisitely neat. It had the widest local reputation of being the snuggest in winter, the coolest in summer, and the most hospitable at all seasons of any in Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte—nay, in the whole stretch of Cotentin! The garden behind it, too, was famous; the owners, M. and Mme. Dupuis, cultivated it themselves with rare enthusiasm and taste. Alphonse Karr’s world-celebrated flowers would have been considered pale and scentless beside Mme. Dupuis’—at least, by the Cotentinians. And the fruits—the peaches and green-gages, the pears and grapes—it was not believed possible that the like could be found even in Paris. Let us add that, when in their first flush of ripeness and bloom, the greater portion of these carefully-tended flowers and fruits were culled by Mme. Dupuis’ own hands, and sent forth to carry light and beauty, perfume and freshness, into every sick-room of the little town.

The Dupuis were a thoroughly worthy couple; they had married young, for love, and had been blessed with an only child, a daughter, good and pretty as her mother, and, like her mother, wedded early and happily.

When the episode in their lives which is the subject of this little story took place, they had passed together thirty years of tranquil, uneventful felicity. M. Dupuis had shortly before sold his business—he was a notary—and was now enjoying a well-earned rest. He was a man of sixty, well-educated, intelligent, and still strong, active, and enthusiastic. His plump little wife had just completed her fifty-fifth year—she did not appear to be forty-five. She was of a deeper, more thoughtful nature than her husband, but nevertheless her sympathy with him was unbounded—she loved all he loved, the same people and the same things. She was the type of a true wife and of a true Christian.

Too modest and timid to have any personal pretensions, Mme. Dupuis’ great pride lay in her well-ordered home, her exquisitely clean house, her nicely-arranged kitchen, and, though last, certainly not least, in her cook and housemaid, whom she considered absolutely unparalleled in their several vocations. And it must be allowed that Jeannette and Marianne had, during twenty years, fully justified their mistress’ good opinion of them. During all this time the two women had constantly studied her every wish, and the result was the perfection of domestic economy.

The family party was completed by a large white Angora cat, promoted since the marriage of Mlle. Dupuis to the enviable position of “pet of the household,” and universally considered in Cotentin to be the most remarkable animal of its species.