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that there are no taverns in these villages. The mayor informs me that a stranger can ask the first person he meets where lodging can be obtained; "a bad bed," he adds. There are not many towns of seven hundred people in our country without a public-house, but then we move about

more.

Again I see Mr. Cireau, the mayor, without immediately knowing him. I am looking intently at the great watering-place in the village,—at a man who is dipping out water, and at his fine horse; and I also see a man at a little distance in a blue blouse, of whom I afterwards hear that it was the mayor; probably he does not understand all my movements. This watering-place is no curiosity to them. It is doubtless old, and they have known it all their lives. The little brick chapel with a brick roof, close by it, bears date 1696.

One day when Mrs. Salmier and I are out, we call at the mayor's, but Mr. and Mrs. Cireau are not at home. The servant gives us beer, and allows us to walk in the garden,-which has not an envious high wall and close gate, excluding all view from the road, like one we visited in the next village.

Speaking of persons of importance, we will next take the notary, who has a more elegant place,-perhaps the handsomest in the village. Mrs. Salmier calls his house a cháteau. He has only been here about two years, and I do not find that he has become a favorite. Returning one day from the fields, on that side where the great chestnut-tree serves for a land-mark, I come first to the high brick wall which surrounds the grandeur of Mr. Notary. In one part the wall is lower, so that we can see the white building within, which seems to be an addition to another building; and there is another high building, which is the gardener's

house. What splendid walnut-trees there are in the enclosure! Farther round, a great gateway, with stone pillars, stands open, showing an avenue of trees. When I saw this house from the field, its large enclosure and high wall, I thought of Mrs. Sartoris's "Week in a French Country House."

I ask Mr. Salmier whether I can enter the great open gateway of the notary's house. "Not without permission," he answers. "If you wanted to put money at interest you would be welcome." (I understand that notaries resemble our conveyancers.)

The richest person in the village, and one whose name is much sounded, is a widow with one child,-a young daughter,—and doubtless the property belongs to both. Madame Druvet, as I call her, has about two hundred and fifty acres, and twenty horses. She lives in a long brick house, with four windows on one side of the front door and four on the other, having white window-blinds, all closed, and the front door white, with no steps to go up to it. However, the court-yard stands open; and what admirable order there is within! Madame Druvet manages her own affairs. She, the mayor, and one other are the only persons who have a right to hunt in this commune. For permission to hunt, or to send a hunter, you must pay five dollars yearly; then you can take partridges, hares, and rabbits. I see a great hole in a bank, where there is a rabbit-warren. There are not enough hunters here to keep down the rabbits that eat the crops. I visit a wood of Madame Druvet's, -a planted wood of several acres. She forbids hunting in it; and, indeed, it is in many places scarcely permeable,-being a thicket. Again I hear that Madame Druvet has in this commune over three hundred acres, worth on an average about four hun

dred and eighty dollars the acre.

She desires all her hands

to vote the Bonapartist ticket, and would probably favor the legitimist if there were one. "Why is she so much. on that side?" I ask. "Madame Druvet holds much to religion," is the reply. (But this commune is republican.) I was to be taken to see Madame Druvet, but fate forbade, as will be shown hereafter. The aristocracy was not for me. I am not entirely sure that I should include the curé among the great people of the village; he is not rich. In walking through the street, after you pass the church and come towards the little chapel at the cross-road, the first house that you pass is a two-story one. Here lives Miss Gouchon, who is sixty or more, and has no domestic. Quick! see that black-robed figure going up those steps. He has disappeared, and there is nothing to be seen but a green door in a high brick wall. Yes, you can see the roof of a house and a large walnut-tree. Here lives Mr. Curé with his old aunt. He has no servant, old aunt. Once there were two aunts. to him when he was younger, "We will educate you, and then you shall keep us." Or possibly they had other revenues. He receives from the government the enormous salary of nine hundred francs,-say one hundred and seventy-one dollars. Then the commune also gives him something; besides his house and garden, he has one hundred and fifty francs a year for saying low mass. He does not come to see us. He does not love republicans; and, indeed, he goes nowhere,-only to visit the schools. "And he visits the schools ?" I ask. "Yes; it is his duty," is the answer. It may be remembered that I met at Paris a lady-inspectress of infant schools, and that I have spoken of the office of inspector. I hear at this village, "As for the inspector, he lives at Cambray, and only comes once a

he has only the Possibly they said

year.

When he comes he goes to the curé and the mayor, and they go round together."

But we have not yet heard all the perquisites of the curé, or parish priest. For high masses chanted during the week he receives forty sous for each mass. Madame Druvet has two said a week for her husband and her relatives and deceased friends. Then there is a Mr. Buffon, a deceased bachelor, whose heirs have a mass said once a week for the repose of his soul; and there are others, so that there is a mass every day. Then every Sunday the curé says a De Profundis for seventy-five dead people. He repeats all the names every Sunday, and he receives five francs a year for each person, from the families. For a funeral he is paid about as follows: at eleven o'clock, one hundred francs; at ten, eighty francs; at nine, forty; at eight, perhaps as low as fifteen. For marriages, when there are no masses, he receives nothing; and there are not many with masses, because the people here are not too devout, and on account of the expense. It costs about thirty francs, and there are years that there is not a marriage with mass. Every time that the curé makes a baptism he receives from twenty sous to three francs, and sometimes boxes of sugar-plums too. I am told that these altogether probably amount to six hundred francs.

This village cannot increase in size, because the lands around it belong to the hospitals of a neighboring city. Lands given to the poor were not seized during the Revolution. It was the lands of the seigneurs and the Church and the curés, those who emigrated, that were sold. In renting lands here, there is a peculiar bonus given called the pot of wine, or pot de vin,—the custom being probably ancient.

Lands are always rented for nine years. Madame Druvet rented hers for about twelve dollars the acre yearly. The pot de vin which she receives is another twelve dollars on each acre, paid once in these nine years. For some extra lands an extra pot de vin is bid, amounting even as high as seventy dollars the acre. Mr. Cireau, the mayor, rented his thus (there were nearly one hundred acres): for eighteen years at about sixteen dollars the acre, and the pot de vin sixteen dollars more; therefore the first year's rent is double, or thirty-two to thirty-three dollars per acre. Then at the end of the first nine years there must be another pot de vin, so that the rent of the tenth year will amount to thirty-two dollars or over. Those who hire these lands also have to pay the taxes, which amount to about one and a half dollars per acre. In renting lands at these high figures, Mr. Salmier says that the renter can make something if he does not have to hire hands, but he cannot buy property; he can live, but he cannot lay by money. He adds that in part of his land the renter will have to raise forage for his horses or he must buy; and this year, which has been wet, forage of sainfoin, lucerne, etc., will cost him thirty sous daily for two horses, and of oats it will require yearly about ninety-three dollars' worth.

I have told how at Boissières, in Central France, after raising a crop of grain they do not fatigue the ground the second year. Mr. Salmier tells me that formerly lands here were allowed to lie fallow every third year. The land was divided into three parts: all who raised wheat raised it on one of these thirds; those who raised oats on the second third; and the other third was jachère, or dead land, which lay uncultivated. The next year wheat was planted on the fallow, oats on the wheat ground, and the other third went

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