park.  But all the women came to her with their troubles.  Nearly always the same story—­the men spending their earnings on drink and the poor mothers toiling and striving from dawn till dark to give the little ones enough to eat.  She was a strict Protestant, very taciturn and reserved, quite the type of the old Calvinist race who fought so hard against the “Scarlet Woman” when the beautiful and unhappy Mary Stuart was reigning in Scotland and trying to rule her wild subjects.  I often went to see her and she would tell me of her first days at the chateau, where everything was so different from what she was accustomed to.

She didn’t tell me what Mme. A. did—­that she was a very handsome girl and all the men of the establishment fell in love with her.  There were dramas of jealousy when she finally decided to marry the coachman.  Our chef had learned how to make various English cakes in London, and whenever he made buns or a plum-pudding we used to take some to her.  She was a great reader, and we always kept the Times for her, and she and I sympathised with each other—­two Anglo-Saxons married in France.

Some of the traditions of the chateau were quite charming.  I was sitting in the lodge one day talking to Mme. Antoine, when the baker appeared with what seemed to me an extraordinary provision of bread.  I said, “Does he leave the bread for the whole village with you?” “It is not for me, madame, it is for the trainards (tramps) who pass on the road,” and she explained that all the chateaux gave a piece of bread and two sous to any wayfarer who asked for food.  She cut the bread into good thick slices, and showed me a wooden bowl on the chimney, filled with two-sous pieces.  While I was there two men appeared at the big gates, which were always open in the day.  They were strong young fellows carrying their bundles, and a sort of pitchfork slung over their shoulders.  They looked weary and footsore, their shoes worn in holes.  They asked for something to drink and some tobacco, didn’t care very much for the water, which was all that Mme. Antoine had to give them, but thanked her civilly enough for the bread and sous.

The park wall was a good vantage-ground to see all (and that wasn’t much) that went on on the highroad.  The diligence to Meaux passed twice a day, with a fine rattle of old wheels and chains, and cracking of whips.  It went down the steep hill well enough, but coming up was quite another affair.  All the passengers and the driver got out always, and even then it was difficult to get the heavy, cumbersome vehicle up the hill, in winter particularly, when the roads were muddy and slippery.  The driver knew us all well, and was much interested in all that went on at the chateau.  He often brought parcels, and occasionally people from the village who wanted to see W.—­sometimes a blind piano-tuner who came from Villers-Cotterets.  He was very kind to the poor blind man, helped him down most carefully