but not unpleasant fact of having dined well
at the table-d'hôte of the Moulin Rouge, the
principal inn at that time at Vire, recalled
me to one of the consequences of dining at
my own expense—the necessity of settling
the small bill. I was informed of the
amount by a very pretty waitress, who
wore a cap like a gigantic extinguisher.
"Very well," I observed, "but I have no
French money. You must change this,"
and, as I spoke, I took a ten-pound note
out of my pocket-book, and poured out
another glass of the very excellent Bordeaux
with which I had been rewarding my morning's
exertions. "What is it, monsieur?" said
the girl. "It is English money," I replied; "I
wish to have it changed." The fair Norman
took the tissue paper between her finger and
thumb as if it had been a spider's web, with
the spider in the centre, looked at me for a
moment with a smile, and then took it to the
bureau of the mistress of the establishment,
at the farther extremity of the dining-room.
What she said I could not hear; but I saw by
her gestures, to which those of her mistress
corresponded with telegraphic accuracy, that
the appearance of a ten-pound note at that
bar was a novelty. The landlady called
her husband by the name of Jules. Jules
came from a corner of the room where he
had just sat down to a bout of dominoes
(and cider) with a friend. A consultation
took place,—I was frequently referred to, by
signs, both by wife and waitress. Jules shook
his head, looked serious, and summoned his
friend. Another consultation, more serious
looks, more gestures, more shaking of heads:
the bank-note passing from hand to hand
meanwhile, a hieroglyphic which none could
decipher. At length the conclave appeared
to have arrived at a decision. They advanced
in a body to where I was sitting, sustaining
myself (which was not unnecessary) with my
Bordeaux. Monsieur Jules, the host, was the
spokesman, though there was a chorus of
four voices at the end of each remark he
made. He addressed me with all the courtesy
of manner for which the Normans are
distinguished, regretting extremely the fact of
his being under the unfortunate necessity of
informing me that the piece of paper which
I had done him the honour to send to his
wife was utterly worthless. I did not at first
apprehend the true condition of affairs, but
imagined that he fancied the note a forged
one. "Suppose," I thought,—"but no, I had
it from a London banker—I know it's a good
one;" and I told him so. Still smiling,
Monsieur Jules replied that he doubted not
it was good—for some purpose or other—
but that he could not do it the honour of
calling it money; in short, that it was, as he
had already permitted himself to observe, to
him, useless. I now saw the whole bearing of
the case: my ten-pound note was, simply, not
negotiable. "Was there no money-changer
in Vire, the same as in all other French
towns?" A shrug of the shoulders all round
was the reply. "What was I to do?" I
asked, as the circle closed me in, and I faced
them, with my back to the table, unable to
fly, and not at all disposed to fight. A second
shrug, succeeded by the remark from Madame
Volpecq, the hostess, that "probably
Monsieur knew somebody in Vire who would
satisfy her claim;" as to anybody changing
the note, that seemed never to enter into her
calculation. "No. I was a perfect stranger.
Had only arrived that morning." Might
Monsieur Jules ask in what way I was travelling?
A hired carriage. Then the driver could
testify something respecting me. Did I
oppose myself to his being sent for? On
the contrary, I was only too glad. The
man came, and in a few words relieved
my anxiety: he had twenty francs, which
were quite at my service. I gladly borrowed
them, settled with Madame Volpecq (who
then restored my ten-pound note), ordered
the horse to be put-to, and a quarter of an
hour afterwards took leave of Vire, making
a mental memorandum never to go there
again unprovided with the coin of the
realm.

I could speak of other places in France,
more in the common route of travellers, where
I have known similar doubts to prevail as to
the solvency or respectability of the Bank of
England, chiefly arising from the circumstance
of the existence of "the old lady in Threadneedle
Street" being entirely unknown. But
what surprised me more than the refusal to
discount paper, which might or might not
have been of value, was what befel me on
another occasion, at Saint Lo, also in the
province of Normandy. It was the ordinary
predicament, want of change, to obtain which,
I went to the shop of a certain Monsieur
Babou, who announced himself to the public
as a jeweller and goldsmith; and, moreover,
a dealer in specie, so that it appeared to
me if one thoroughly cognisant of metallic
values were wanted in Normandy, Babou
would probably have been the individual
selected. The shop-window did not make
much show—a silver crucifix, a coffee-pot on
an ebony pedestal, under a glass shade, and
half a dozen very sharp-pointed tea-spoons,
appeared to comprise the whole of the stock
paraded for public admiration; but there was
the announcement that specie met with
every polite attention within, and that was
sufficient for me. Accordingly I entered.
Behind a counter, on which was a case not
over full of ornaments, such as ear-rings,
hearts, and crosses made of much attenuated
gold, sat a young lady of about sixteen years
of age, with her head dressed à la Chinoise,
and a small curled lock (the "accroche-
cœur") gummed close to each cheek, which
performed, amidst other duties, the office of
a feminine whisker. I inquired if the shop
were not a Money-changer's, to which the
young lady, who was a demoiselle of the