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Updated: June 15, 2025
Madame Carre-Lamadon, much younger than her husband, was the consolation of all the officers of good family quartered at Rouen. Pretty, slender, graceful, she sat opposite her husband, curled up in her furs, and gazing mournfully at the sorry interior of the coach. Her neighbors, the Comte and Comtesse Hubert de Breville, bore one of the noblest and most ancient names in Normandy.
Then such a greeting and a general rush to unharness the tired mare, the marquis tugging at one trace and I at the other, while Tanrade backed the cart under the shed next to the cider-press, Alice de Bréville and the marquise holding the mare's head.
The Count, an elderly gentleman of dignified appearance, did all in his power to accentuate by every artifice of the toilet his natural resemblance to Henri Quatre, who, according to a legend of the utmost glory to the family, had honored with his royal embraces a Dame de Breville, whose husband had, in consequence, been made Count and Governor of the province.
Her neighbors, Count and Countess Hubert de Breville, bore one of the most ancient and noble names of Normandy. the Count, an old nobleman of aristocratic bearing, endeavored to accentuate by the artifices of his toilette his natural resemblance to King Henry IV, who, according to a legend, in which the family gloried, had caused the maternity of a de Breville lady whose husband, on account of his royal connection, had been made a Count and Governor of a Province.
She sat there opposite to her husband, very small, very dainty, very pretty, wrapped in her furs, and regarding the lamentable interior of the vehicle with despairing eyes. Their neighbors, the Count and Countess Hubert de Breville, bore one of the most ancient and noble names in Normandy.
Then Madame de Breville offered her her foot-warmer, the coal of which had been renewed several times since the morning, and she accepted it willingly, for she felt her feet frozen. Mesdames Carre-Lamadon and Loiseau gave theirs to the Nuns. The driver had lighted his lanterns.
For some minutes after the clatter of Tranchard's sabots had died away in the lane, Alice de Bréville and Monsieur le Curé stood in earnest conversation beside the table. "It may save the child's life," pleaded the priest. There was a ring of insistence in his voice, a gleam in his eyes that made the woman beside him tremble. "You do not understand," she exclaimed, her breast heaving.
Yesterday he lunched at the château with Alice de Bréville; to-morrow he will be cheering up two old maiden aunts who live a league from Bar la Rose. Is it not sad?" And she laughed merrily. "Monsieur le Curé has no bonne!" Parbleu! It has become a household phrase in Pont du Sable. It is so difficult to get a servant here; the girls are all fishing.
"Oh!" cried Madame de Bréville, "Blondel shall sing for us 'L'Histoire de Madame X. You shall cry with laughter." "And 'Le Brigadier de Tours," added Tanrade. The sound of hoofs and the rattle of a dog-cart beyond the wall sent us hurrying to the courtyard. "Eh, voil
She might even confess this to me since there is nothing between us and we are old friends." "No, no," he protested. "You are not to speak of me to Madame de Bréville do you understand?" he cried, his voice rising. "You are not to mention my name, promise me that." This time it was I who shrugged my shoulders in reply.
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