the background. She was the figure that met
the lodgers' eye, the head of the department,
the commander-in-chief.

Her husband was rarely seen. A casual visitor,
making only a short stay, would not have been
aware of his existence. Occupied in his trade all
day at a distance, or in his workshop at the back
of the house, he wore the clothes of a journeyman,
while she was splendid in her caps and
gowns. As a member of the household, he was
reduced to zero — a cipher of the smallest
account. All the share he was allowed to take in
the concern, was the making out of the weekly
bills. Presenting them, was madame's business.
As an inmate, his place was in the back kitchen
at meal-times, and up the attic by night. During
the rest of the day, when he had no work to do,
he either hid himself in some unknown corner,
or else went to the cabaret— the soul-abasing
cabaret. If by chance you stumbled on him, he
shrunk away, as if visibility were no part of his
birthright. When he absolutely could not escape,
and you insisted on speaking to him, he was apt
in his replies, quiet in demeanour, remarkably
well behaved, strikingly submissive.

But fancy a woman bringing her husband to
this pass, after marrying him for love!

During the early part of our residence, everything
seemed to go on smoothly, / should never
have suspected anything wrong. But women
make confidantes of one another; and, in the
course of time, Madame Dupuis, to relieve her
mind, entrusted Miss Chalker with the secret
that she and her husband cordially hated each
other. If Miss Chalker looked in at their
supper-time, to say a civil word before going to
bed, she mostly found the pair at daggers drawn,
giving deep and deadly stabs with their envenomed
tongues. The son entreated her to make
peace; which she did as well as she could. But
after a peace had been signed and sealed, the
peace-maker, retiring, had often the disappointment
of hearing the fray recommence. Madame
would have the last word, and would give the
final thrust.

One morning, Miss Chalker informed me that
the discordant pair had had overnight a dispute
of unusual violence. Taunts had passed between
them, defiance, threats, a challenge— to what
effect exactly she could not say, her imperfect
knowledge of French preventing her from closely
following their passionate volubility— but she
was sure something serious was meant. " But
for the guillotine," said the woman, " and the
disgrace to Louis, I should have murdered you
long ago." " But for the family honour," retorted
the man, " I should have committed suicide."

Miss Chalker, fearing untoward events, began
to wish us out of the house, and proposed looking
out for other quarters. I felt no apprehension
of any catastrophe, knowing that violent
people, all the world over, often say more than
they mean. I did not see madame till the
afternoon, when she wore her usual look and
manner. The storm that had raged the previous
vious night had left no outward trace or token.

Thinking that perhaps it might do good if I
got the belligerents to meet under the
restraint of stranger eyes, I invited the family
to spend the evening with us— madame, the
modest son, and the ignored father— in
company with two or three neighbours. My little
entertainment was accepted by all and for all-
which I had scarcely anticipated.

They came. Madame seemed just a little
excited, Dupuis as unobtrusive and as patient
as ever. Cards were to be the staple of our
pastime. While making the preliminary arrangements,
madame, to my astonishment, said,
"Come, Dupuis; to begin the evening, let us
play a game together— us two. It is a long
time since we have played; and we can't tell
when we may play again. The stake may be—
next to nothing. We are playing for love this time,
you know," darting at him a significant glance.
"I have been reckoning on a game of écarté."

"But why, madame, choose écarté now? " I
asked. " We might have a round game, or two
or three whist-tables. You can have your écarté
afterwards by yourselves, while we are counting
our winnings and the servant is bringing in
supper."

"At écarté, you know, the Ioser goes out," she
said, addressing her husband rather than myself.
"If the game is not sweet, at least it is short. It
will soon be over. I want it over. You are not
afraid of me, Dupuis?"

"Not I, indeed. Here are the cards. Let us
cut for the deal."

"Yes; but not with those cards. You have
had them in your hand for the last two minutes.
Louis, step to the bookseller's, and bring back
with you a couple of fresh packs. They will be
wanted for others as well as for ourselves."

The unopened packs were soon on the table.
Dupuis pushed one to his wife. Madame opened
the pack, and cut.

"The nine of diamonds!" she gaily exclaimed.

"The ten of clubs," said Dupuis, coolly.
"The deal is mine. I do deal. The trump card;
the king of hearts. One! I mark it."

"Will you give cards?" asked madame, after
looking through her hand.

"No," said Dupuis, glancing at his own.

"Very well, then. There!"

"There; and there; and there — and there!
Two by cards and one by my king makes me
three," said Dupuis, quite quietly. " Not a bad
beginning. I mark them. You can open the
second pack. The deal is yours. Ah! The
trump card is the five of spades! Capital! I
don't want to ask for cards. Here is the king
of spades, which makes me four. And here are
the queen and the knave of spades, with more if
I wanted them. The game is mine. Madame
Dupuis goes out."

"Will you like another game," I asked, "now
you are in luck? Shall I take her place?"

"No, I thank you. I have done all I wished
in the way of écarteé I am ready for a round
game, or for anything you please."

Madame rose, pale and impassive, from the