“Old Mill House at La Vrangue, at the beginning of the Nineteenth Century.”
He then, for the first time, remembered that he had never seen puss and his wife at one and the same moment, and the unpleasant truth flashed across his mind that his good woman was one of those who frequent the weekly entertainments given by his Satanic Majesty on Friday nights at Catioroc, Pleinmont, le Cimetière de Torteval, and elsewhere.
Soon afterwards, Mrs. Mahy’s identity was revealed in another manner. It is well known to housekeepers who retain the good old custom of having their linen washed and ironed at home, that an amount of gossip, scarcely to be credited, goes on on these occasions. The women employed, moving as they do from house to house, pick up all the news that has arisen during the week, and, meeting every day with fresh companions, retail what they have heard, and gather new information in return, from every direction. Of course the characters of the neighbours, and even of their employers, are not spared, and for this latter reason, perhaps, it is that a certain degree of mystery frequently pervades these conversations, and that listeners and eavesdroppers are discouraged. A sort of freemasonry prevails, and it is only by a rare accident that the scandal and gossip retailed at the washing tub or ironing board find their way to the parlour. Great, therefore, was the astonishment of the discreet and prudent workwomen, whose avocations took them to the houses in the neighbourhood of Madame Mahy’s dwelling, to find that their most confidential communications were repeated, and could in most cases be traced to that good lady. They had never detected her listening; they felt convinced that none among them could be so treacherous as to betray their secrets. They determined to keep a sharp look-out, and at last the mystery was solved. A young ironer, of more keen observation than her companions, had remarked that, in whatever house they worked, the same old tabby cat was to be seen seated before the fire, and apparently dreaming away her existence. Her suspicions were aroused. She watched puss closely, and was convinced at last that, even when apparently dozing, pussy was listening attentively to what was going on. She was not long in forming a plan to prove whether her conjectures were correct. She took up a flat iron from the hearth, and, under the pretence of cleaning and cooling it on the mat, approached the unsuspecting cat and suddenly applied it to her nose. Puss jumped up and suddenly disappeared with a yell, which, as the conclave of gossips declared, resembled far more the cry of a woman in pain than the miauling of a cat. Next day it was rumoured abroad that poor Madame Mahy, while sitting before her fire, had been overtaken with sleep, and falling forward had burnt her face severely on the bars of the grate! “You know,” said the old woman who related the story, “that Capt. Mahy never passed for a conjuror. He ought however to have had more wit than to tell these stories to his friends over a glass of grog, for, although he did not say that he had recognised his wife’s voice, or that he did not believe that she had dozed over the fire, they had already made the remark that Mrs. Mahy and the cat had never been seen together, and were not long in drawing their conclusions and publishing them to the world. The story soon found its way to those hot-beds of gossip, the public bake-houses, and from thence over all the town.”[188]
[188] From Miss Martineau, to whom the story was related by Mrs. Jonathan Bichard, of L’Ancresse, and also from Rachel Du Port.
Editor’s Note.
Two Witches and Two Cats.
In the Vale parish, very many years ago, lived a father and daughter, Nico and Denise Roberts. Denise was an extremely pretty girl, and Pierre Henry, the richest man in the parish, wanted to marry her. There were two old maiden ladies who were neighbours of the Roberts’, and were excessively jealous of all the attention and admiration Denise received. They both considered that they were still young and fascinating, and one was considered to have designs on old Roberts, and the other on Pierre Henry himself.
They both had the reputation of being witches by all the neighbours, principally because they were never seen without two black cats, and they even used to go so far as to take these two cats with them, when, in the evenings, as was their frequent custom, they would take their knitting and go and sit for hours in the Roberts’ kitchen. Denise used to implore her father not to encourage “ces daeux vieilles sorilles,”[189] knowing well that they were trying to poison his mind against Pierre Henry, but he paid no attention to his daughter, as they amused him by telling him all the gossip and scandal of the place, and he used to sit and let them whisper to him on one side of the hearth, while Pierre and Denise sat on the other; but all the time the two latter were talking, they were annoyed by the cats brought in by old Margot and Olympe Le Moine, and this went on evening after evening. If Pierre tried to move his chair nearer to hers, one of the cats would climb up and manage to thrust its claws in his leg. If he bent forward to whisper to her, the other cat would jump on her shoulder, and prevent Denise from attending to what he was saying. After some time he grew convinced that all this could not be accidental, so, one evening, just as the largest of the two cats had perched itself on Denise’s shoulder at the most inopportune moment, he whispered in its ear “Margot, tu quérrâs” (“Margot, you will tumble down.”) At that moment, Margot Le Moine, who was sitting at the other end of the room, fell off her chair in a dead faint, and the cat gave a yell and darted up the chimney. This finally convinced old Roberts as to the true character of his friends, and he swore that never again should these two “quéraudes” darken his doors, and, soon after, Denise Roberts and Pierre Henry were married.[190]