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.
II.
One winter’s evening, when the snow lay deep in the streets and the north wind whistled fiercely around the eaves, M. Dupuis’ dining-room looked particularly cheerful. The heavy tapestry curtains were drawn close before the windows, and a flaming wood fire showered sparkles of reflected light on the crystal and silver placed on the round dining-table, and lighted up the portraits of some sober-looking personages in powdered wigs which adorned the walls. The handsome tortoise-shell and copper clock, a masterpiece of the style Louis Quinze, standing on a hanging shelf above the sofa, was, perhaps, the best article of furniture in the room; the chimney-piece was too encumbered with porcelain shepherds and shepherdesses, and china jars filled with artificial flowers and covered with great glass globes, for the taste of the present day. Fashion had slumbered in Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte for many a long year. But there was light and warmth, and a pervading feeling of comfort, worth all the gilded, satin-covered chairs and lounges that Parisian taste can devise, all the Venetian mirrors and Sevres vases that luxury can afford. Mme. Dupuis’ dining-room was certainly rococo and provincial, incongruous in some respects, deficient in harmony, but what sincere, cordial hospitality those four walls had witnessed! what pleasant repasts! what real good, wholesome eating! what merry toasts had been drunk there in claret, in sherry, and champagne—wines as bright as Mme. Dupuis’ eyes, and as pure and unadulterated as her heart!
A second clock, a very ugly one it must be confessed, a representative of the bad taste of the First Empire, which stood in the centre of the already too encumbered mantel-shelf, marked five minutes past six, and Mme. Dupuis was seated at the head of her dining-table. She was neatly dressed in black silk; her dark brown hair, streaked here and there with silver threads, was arranged in simple bandeaux on each side of her temples, and a small lace cap trimmed with a few knots of pink ribbon concealed the paucity of the “back hair”; for Mme. Dupuis was behind her time. She had not “marched with her age,” and had not yet learned to wear a “switch.”