the bay at the mass of Mont St. Michel. Directly beneath us as we stood on the hill, and lying in a straight line with the Mount, there was a large square white house, on the very edge of the stretching sand. We were told that it was a convent.
“But the whole place is no livelier than one,” said I, yawning. “My dear fellow, why don’t we go on?”
“It is right for you to see this interesting town,” answered Gustave gravely, but with a merry gleam in his eye. “However, I have ordered a carriage, so be patient.”
“For what time?”
“Nine o’clock, when we have dined.”
“We are to get there in the dark, then?”
“What reason is there against that?” he asked, smiling.
“None,” said I; and I went to pack up my bag.
In my room I chanced to find a femme-de-chambre. To her I put a question or two as to the gentry of the neighborhood. She rattled me off a few distinguished names, and ended:
“The duke of Saint-Maclou has also a small château.”
“Is he there now?” I asked.
“The duchess only, sir,” she answered. “Ah, they tell wonderful stories of her!”
“Do they? Pray, of what kind?”
“Oh, not to her harm, sir; or, at least, not exactly, though to simple country-folk”
The national shrug was an appropriate ending.
“And the duke?”
