on the ground floor. The
getting-up of these places, the looking-glasses, clocks, little stoves,
all manner of fittings, must be seen to be appreciated. The conservatory
is full of choice flowers and perfectly beautiful."

Then came the charm of the letter, his description of his landlord,
lightly sketched by him in print as M. Loyal-Devasseur, but here filled
in with the most attractive touches his loving hand could give. "But the
landlord--M. Beaucourt--is wonderful. Everybody here has two surnames (I
cannot conceive why), and M. Beaucourt, as he is always called, is by
rights M. Beaucourt-Mutuel. He is a portly jolly fellow with a fine open
face; lives on the hill behind, just outside the top of the garden; and
was a linen draper in the town, where he still has a shop, but is
supposed to have mortgaged his business and to be in difficulties--all
along of this place, which he has planted with his own hands; which he
cultivates all day; and which he never on any consideration speaks of
but as 'the Property.' He is extraordinarily popular in Boulogne (the
people in the shops invariably brightening up at the mention of his
name, and congratulating us on being his tenants), and really seems to
deserve it. He is such a liberal fellow that I can't bear to ask him for
anything, since he instantly supplies it whatever it is. The things he
has done in respect of unreasonable bedsteads and washing-stands, I
blush to think of. I observed the other day in one of the side
gardens--there are gardens at each side of the house too--a place where
I thought the Comic Countryman" (a name he was giving just then to his
youngest boy) "must infallibly trip over, and make a little descent of a
dozen feet. So I said, 'M. Beaucourt'--who instantly pulled off his cap
and stood bareheaded--'there are some spare pieces of wood lying by the
cow-house, if you would have the kindness to have one laid across here I
think it would be safer.' 'Ah, mon dieu sir,' said M. Beaucourt, 'it
must be iron. This is not a portion of the property where you would like
to see wood.' 'But iron is so expensive,' said I, 'and it really is not
worth while----' 'Sir, pardon me a thousand times,' said M. Beaucourt,
'it shall be iron. Assuredly and perfectly it shall be iron.' 'Then M.
Beaucourt,' said I, 'I shall be glad to pay a moiety of the cost.'
'Sir,' said M. Beaucourt, 'Never!' Then to change the subject, he slided
from his firmness and gravity into a graceful con