If we take up our quarters at the old-fashioned inn called the Pot d’Etain, we shall find much to remind us of the 15th century.  If we take a walk by the beautiful banks of the Rille on a summer’s evening, or in the fields where the peasants are at work, we shall find the aspect curiously English, and in the intonation of the voices the resemblance is sometimes startling; we seem hardly amongst foreigners—­both in features and in voice there is a strong family likeness.  There is a close tie of blood relationship no doubt, of ancient habits and natural tastes; but, in spite of railways and steamboats, the two peoples know very little of each other.

That young girl with the plain white cap fitting close to her hair—­who tends the flocks on the hill side, and puts all her power and energy into the little matter of knitting a stocking—­is a Norman maiden, a lineal descendant, it may be, of some ancient house, whose arms we may find in our own heraldic albums.  She is noble by nature, and has the advantage over her coroneted cousins in being permitted to wear a white cap out of doors, and an easy and simple costume; in the fact of her limbs being braced by a life spent in the open air, and her head not being plagued with the proprieties of May Fair.  She is pretty; but what is of more importance she knows how to cook, and she has a little store of money in a bank.  She has been taught enough for her station, and has few wishes beyond it; and some day she will marry Jean, and happy will be Jean.

That stalwart warrior (whom we see on the next page), sunning himself outside his barrack door, having just clapped his helmet on the head of a little boy in blouse and sabots, is surely a near relation to our guardsman; he is certainly brave, he is full of fun and intelligence, he very seldom takes more wine than is good for him, and a game at dominoes delights his soul.

[Illustration]

But it is in the market-place of Pont Audemer that we shall obtain the best idea of the place and of the people.

On market mornings and on fete days, when the Place is crowded with old and young,—­when all the caps (of every variety of shape, from the ‘helmet’ to the bonnet-rouge), and all the old brown coats with short tails—­are collected together, we have a picture, the like of which we may have seen in rare paintings, but very seldom realize in life.  Of the tumult of voices on these busy mornings, of the harsh discordant sounds that sometimes fill the air, we must not say much, remembering their continual likeness to our own; but viewed, picturesquely, it is a sight not to be forgotten, and one that few English people are aware can be witnessed so near home.

Here the artist will find plenty of congenial occupation, and opportunities (so difficult to meet with in these days) of sketching both architecture and people of a picturesque type—­groups in the market-place, groups down by the river fishing under the trees, groups at windows of old hostelries, and seated at inn doors; horses in clumsy wooden harness; calves and pigs, goats and sheep; women at fruit stalls, under tents and coloured umbrellas; piles upon piles of baskets, a wealth of green things, and a bright fringe of fruit and flowers, arranged with all the fanciful grace of “les dames des halles,” in Paris.[6]