obtained the right to manufacture sugar. Here in a neat new house lives the basculeur, who weighs the beets. When we take our beets to be weighed, we can buy the pulp left in pressing, at ten francs the thousand kilos, or at about two dollars for two thousand two hundred pounds, and we bought one hundred francs' worth and put it into these holes to keep and to feed. "I would like to have more still," says Mrs. Salmier, "because then the butter would not be soft in the summer,-the butter of the beet is hard." About half the cultivators here signed the compromise with the company, which entitles them to the privilege of buying one-fifth of the weight of the beets in pulp. They signed to induce the company to put up the works, and when the raperie was built the rest came in and signed. After the beets are pressed at the raperie, the juice is conducted underground in a pipe. Ours is not the only raperie,—there is another about three or four miles from here, where the pipe begins; thence the juice flows here, and, increased by ours, goes on about three miles farther, where there is another raperie; thence the juice of the three goes on to the mother or central house of this region, where there is a sugar-house for making cassonade, or brown sugar, and perhaps a refinery, too, though not a complete one, I am told. Every day during the season the basculeur at our village telegraphs to the chief house what weight of beets he has received; and the agent at the sugar-works writes us a letter letting us know to what we are entitled, and we can go to that place and get our money.

But we have left Mr. Salmier's house to follow the beet

juice in its underground travels; let us return. I was interested in the cellar, which had not upright walls like ours, with the beams and floors showing above, but was entirely covered with an arch of brick. I am allowed, too, to visit

the grenier, or garret. The wheat has been sold, but there is a nice heap of rye; we feed rye to the hog. And here madame has some clothes hanging to dry. I see, too, a bust in plaster of some one who has a laurel wreath around his head; she tells me that it is Louis Napoleon. It was at the mayor's office,—probably the mayor's father bought it,—and when the republic came they said it should be put into the garret, and they broke the nose. Thus passes the glory of

this world!

With us in Southern Pennsylvania, even if our houses are at some distance from the barn-yard, we are tormented with flies in the summer; but here there are almost no flies in the house, although it is July and August. Even bacon hangs in the open room without a covering to protect it from insects.

I have mentioned the garden-wall. On the other three sides the garden is surrounded by a high hedge of elder, which is cut once in three years for pea-brush. Cabbages, onions, leeks, and garlic are growing within (remember our high northern latitude, Paris being north of Quebec). There are, too, chicory,-used here to help out coffee,-and oseille, or the sorrel which I ate at Paris, broad-leaved like spinach. There is a plant called cassis, with fruit like large black currants, some strawberries of the four seasons (small), and a few raspberries; peas with very high brush, and scarlet and white runners; there is a quantity of beet-seed, but we do not eat beets on the table; there are potatoes, carrots, etc., and delicious crimson clove-pinks.

CHAPTER XXII.

I HAVE mentioned that in our way hither we stopped at the house of Mrs. Salmier's sister-in-law, which is in the next commune to ours,-I call it Caulmain. Mrs. Gouchon, the sister-in-law, invited me to come the next day,—Sunday, -it being one of their fête-days. I did not understand her to invite me to dinner, and, as I had writing to do, I did not get off until late; Marie, the young daughter, accompanying me. We find the company still at the table, and Marie and I sit down, and food is brought to us. Mr. Salmier is there, our hostess being his sister, and the people are very much interested in talking with me about my country. Before we leave, Mr. Gouchon very kindly invites me to come the next day, which is the second day of the festival. This is not named for any saint, but is the fête of cherries. However, I see none. There is a more important festival in the fall. On our way back we stop in this village to see the ball-room, which is lighted up. The dancing is not to begin this-Sunday-evening until nine. Mr. Salmier tells me that it is the influence of the curés, or parish priests, which prevents its beginning earlier, and I have imagined that the nearness of England has something to do with it. They dance the schottisch, polka, varsovienne, and mazurka, and what they call the jumping waltz. Old dances were the pastourelle and chassez

four.

On Monday it is Mrs. Salmier who accompanies me to Mr. Napoleon Gouchon's to dine, and we arrive there be

tween one and two. A beautiful load of flax is standing before the door, and I speak of it to our host, who tells me that a good harvest of flax is worth ninety-two dollars per acre (computing five francs as a dollar). He gives me the expense of ploughing and cultivating, of manure, of seed, and of weeding, and the whole amounts to thirty-eight dollars, leaving fifty-four dollars clear profit. When, however, we learn that the best lands here are worth six hundred dollars per acre, and when we hear the great expense of renting land, our enthusiasm over the value of the crop will cool.

The family at Mr. Gouchon's consists first of my friend Napoleon and his wife. There are also two sons,—intelligent men, the older being married, and having children; his wife seems to be the housekeeper, or to do the principal part of the house work. At dinner we have first a good bouillon, or soup, with bread in, afterwards slices of cold roast beef with a dressing of herbs, containing probably garlic and poppy-seed oil, then veal with a plentiful supply of green peas. As this is the second day of the festival, we have cold roast turkey, with salad, and then the cold ham of yesterday. This turkey, which is not large, is quite a remarkable object in the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Salmier. We have also wine and beer, black coffee with the little glass of spirits, and sweet cakes and a little rock-candy. We are at the table about three hours. Among the guests is a stout man in a blue linen blouse, whom I call Deraismes. When he sees me put water into wine, he remarks that I am going to do penance. There is no water upon the table until I call for it, and disturb our young hostess to go and bring it. Their beer is not near so strong as lager; but they say that it will intoxicate. I afterwards hear of a carpenter who was gourmand, and who drank in half an hour about six quarts. At this dinner we have napkins,

and spoons and forks resembling pewter. Again I am asked much about my country; indeed, I seem quite a lion. Mr. Napoleon Gouchon-the old gentleman—and his friend Deraismes are Bonapartists; one of the young men says because they are rich, but that is ironical. Mr. Deraismes is sixty-eight, and remembers the burning of Moscow. He had picked up a few English words, when the English occupied this country for three years after the battle of Waterloo until the indemnity was paid them; but Mr. Deraismes's English is hard to understand. The two

young Gouchons also wear blue linen blouses, they are at home. They are intelligent; they and two youths who come in are republicans. They speak of the different parties,―of the Orleanists and the Henri Quinquists. I ask how many Bourbonites there are. They do not readily understand me, for it seems that they generally call them Henri Quinquists, from the Bourbon heir to the throne. As soon as they do understand, the eldest son says that it is only the curés who support Henry V., adding afterwards, "Some great lords." In order to be fully correct, I turn to the father, Mr. Napoleon, the Bonapartist, and he replies that the greater part of the curés support Henry V. My neighbor at table, Mr. Deraismes, wishes to know whether Pekin is the capital of America; but one of the young men knows better. It is Voz-ann-ton, or perhaps Nev-Yor. When I remark that I can say in my country that all the young men I have seen are republicans, and, turning to my Napoleon and his friend, venture the remark that it is only the old gentlemen who are aristocrats, the bright younger son says, "They are old crusts," and Deraismes retaliates, "They are young rats."

This house where we dine is in the next commune to ours, the commune containing six hundred and seventy