ng the classical linen cap peculiar
to the women of Lower Normandy. This girl, as buxom as a wet-nurse,
looked as if she would burst the blue cotton check in which she
clothed her person. Her florid face might have been hewn out of stone,
so hard were its tawny outlines.

Of course no attention was paid to the advent in the house of this
girl, whose name was Agathe--an ordinary, wide-awake specimen, such as
is daily imported from the provinces. Agathe had no attractions for
the cook, her tongue was too rough, for she had served in a suburban
inn, waiting on carters; and instead of making a conquest of her chief
and winning from him the secrets of the high art of the kitchen, she
was the object of his great contempt. The _chef's_ attentions were, in
fact, devoted to Louise, the Countess Steinbock's maid. The country
girl, thinking herself ill-used, complained bitterly that she was
always sent out of the way on some pretext when the _chef_ was
finishing a dish or putting the crowning touch to a sauce.

"I am out of luck," said she, "and I shall go to another place."

And yet she stayed though she had twice given notice to quit.

One night, Adeline, roused by some unusual noise, did not see Hector
in the bed he occupied near hers; for they slept side by side in two
beds, as beseemed an old couple. She lay awake an hour, but he did not
return. Seized with a panic, fancying some tragic end had overtaken
him--an apoplectic attack, perhaps--she went upstairs to the floor
occupied by the servants, and then was attracted to the room where
Agathe slept, partly by seeing a light below the door, and partly by
the murmur of voices. She stood still in dismay on recognizing the
voice of her husband, who, a victim to Agathe's charms, to vanquish
this strapping wench's not disinterested resistance, went to the
length of saying:

"My wife has not long to live, and if you like you may be a Baroness."

Adeline gave a cry, dropped her candlestick, and fled.

Three days later the Baroness, who had received the last sacraments,
was dying, surrounded by her weeping family.

Just before she died, she took her husband's hand and pressed it,
murmuring in his ear:

"My dear, I had nothing left to give up to you but my life. In a
minute or two you will be free, and can make another Baronne Hulot."

And, rare sight, tears oozed from her dead eyes.

This desperateness of vice had vanquished the patience of the angel,
who, on the brink of