which had, indeed, been so slight as to be hardly
worth notice, I—testing it by the consideration
that had I heard it by day, I should have paid
no attention to it—dismissed the subject from
my mind, and went to bed and to undisturbed
slumbers. Next morning, according to custom,
I opened the door, which gave fullupon the
sea. My eye was caught by a darkish stain on
the stone stair. I looked down the flight;
another and another, all the way to the bottom;
the unmistakable print of a bare wet foot. Whose,
or why there, I never found out.

"Saint Nogatte," as its inhabitants call the
Breton village of St. Enogat, is a place to be
visited by those who want the bluest sea, the
most silvery sands, the loveliest lonely bays, the
simplest life, the most kindly people, and
unlimited green figs at a nominal price: figs large
and luscious and melting, peeling at a touch,
plucked from vast trees, in whose spreading
boughs you may climb and nestle and hide, with
the ripe fruits clustering within reach all round,
and the great leaves shutting out the noonday
sun. Such breezy downs as the place has, and
thatched cottages deep in vines and fig-trees
and half-wild flowers! Such a beach, without
a stone; such water, so clear that the sunny
ripples are reflected on the sunny bottom, and
the particles of sand you stir, glitter like
atoms of silver through the wave they never
stain. Such moonlights, and oh such sunrises!
Coming in in glory of crimson and gold through
your window, with mingled odours from the
dimpled sea, and the thymey downs, and the
dewy gardens!

And then the kindly good simple folk, with
the native courtesy that springs from such
kindliness; their hospitality, their cheeriness,
so different from the cold hard mistrustfulness
of the Normandy peasant; their legends
full of poetry. Arthur figures in them, and
Guinevere, and Launcelot, Merlin, and Viviane; the
forest of Broceliaunde, now called Bréscilien,
where the " wily maid" found Merlin; and the
Gré de Méen, where she imprisoned the simple
sage; are not far from here. The Island of
Avalon, where Arthur sleeps his long sleep, is
off the coast.

I wonder why there comes across me now, the
recollection of a room I spent a night in, at Lille.
Hundreds must have occupied it, for it is a
room in the railway hotel, close to the station.
If I ever saw a room, or indeed a house, that
told its own tale of fallen greatness, it was that
room, and that house. The great salons on
the rez de chaussee are tawdrily decorated as
salles de restaurant, but their noble proportions
remain; the wide stone staircase is dirty, and
along the corridors the doors are numbered, as
hotel-room doors are wont to be, and some of
the bedrooms have been vulgarised by flaring
modern papers. But my room was hardly altered
since the day when Madame la Marquise, reclining
among lace and cambric on her alcoved bed,
received her morning visitors, and sipped her
chocolate from the déjeuner service of rose du
Barri. Large it was, and lofty; the walls completely
lined with wainscots carved in wreaths
and medallions; the frame of the vast chimney-
glass, and the tall mantelpiece, matching the rest,
and forming parts of the fixed decorations of the
room; and round the arched windows, with their
deep recesses, and seats, and round the broader
arch of the alcove again came the rich and graceful
carvings. But perhaps the most curious thing
in the room, and that most suggestive of the
wealth and fancy of the former owners or
occupants, was a pair of splendid Chinese doors, one
at either end of the alcove; false doors probably,
or enclosing closets. They were of black Japan,
with human figures, birds, fruits, and flowers, in
relief, and coloured like fine enamels, and with
large gilt ornaments with rings, by way of
handles, in the middle of each. Most French
people, especially of the ancien régime, have a
passion for " Chinoiseries," and doubtless these
specimens, purchased at a time when communication
with the Flowery Land was on a very
different footing, represented a sum of money
startling in amount.

And now Madame la Marquise sleeps elsewhere,
more sound than she did in the carved
alcove; and her sacred chamber is an inn-room,
where any one can lie that has a few francs to
pay for his night's lodging; and her salons are
filled with little tables, on which hungry
travellers eat hasty meals at so much per dish,
and, if they think of it, say, so passes away the
glory of the earth, and hasten to catch the
train.

NEW WORK BY MR. DICKENS,

In Monthly Parts, uniform with the Original Editions of
"Pickwick," " Copperfleld," &c.
  Now publishing, PART V., price Is., of
           OUR MUTUAL FRIEND.
             BY CHARLES DICKENS.
        IN TWENTY MONTHLY PARTS-
    With Illustrations by MARCUS STOKE.
London: CHAPMAN and HA IT, 133, Piccadilly.

Just published, bound in green cloth, price 5s. 6d.,
THE ELEVENTH VOLUME.