nt assembly. Madame Bartet was the Queen of the Fete, and sat
between the Bishop and the Prefet. There were some pretty speeches from
M. Henri Houssaye, M. Roujon--and of course the toast of the President
accompanied by the Marseillaise.

The departure to the train was most amusing--all the swells, including
Bartet, walking in the cortege, escorted by a torch-light procession,
and surrounded by the entire population of La Ferte.

The Grande Rue was illuminated from one end to the other, red Bengal
lights throwing out splendidly the grand old chateau and the towers of
Notre Dame.

VIII

A CORNER OF NORMANDY

BAGNOLES DE L'ORNE, July-August.

It is lovely looking out of my window this morning, so green and cool
and quiet. I had my petit dejeuner on my balcony, a big tree in the
garden making perfect shade and a wealth of green wood and meadow in
every direction, so resting to the eyes after the Paris asphalt. It
seems a very quiet little place. Scarcely anything passing--a big
omnibus going, I suppose, to the baths, and a butcher's cart. For the
last ten minutes I have been watching a nice-looking sunburned girl with
a big straw hat tied down over her ears, who is vainly endeavouring to
get her small donkey-cart, piled high with fruit and vegetables, up a
slight incline to the gate of a villa just opposite. She has been
struggling for some time, pulling, talking, and red with the exertion.
One or two workmen have come to her assistance, but they can't do
anything either. The donkey's mind is made up. There is an animated
conversation--I am too high up to hear what they say. Finally she leaves
her cart, ties up her fruit in her apron, balances a basket of eggs with
one hand on her head, and disappears into the garden behind the gate. No
one comes along and the cart is quite unmolested. I think I should have
gone down myself if I had seen anyone making off with any of the fruit.
It is a delightful change from the hot stuffy August Paris I left
yesterday. My street is absolutely deserted, every house closed except
mine, the sun shining down hard on the white pavement, and perfect
stillness all day. The evenings from seven till ten are indescribable--a
horror of musical concierges with accordions, a favorite French
instrument. They all sit outside their doors with their families and
friends, playing and singing all the popular songs, and at intervals all
joining in a loud chorus of "Viens Poupoule." Grooms are