his wife an English monosyllable, to which the latter replies
imperturbably with a French monosyllable. Nevertheless, three little
lords, worthy the pencil of Lawrence, who strut majestically around this
Olympian couple, attest between the two nations a secret intelligence
which escapes the vulgar observer.

A scarcely less remarkable couple comes over to us daily from a
neighboring chateau. The husband is one Monsiuer de Breuilly, formerly an
officer in King Charles X's body-guards, and a bosom friend of the
marquis. He is a very lively old man, still quite fine-looking, and
wearing over close-cropped gray hair a hat too small for his head. He has
an odd, though perhaps natural, way of scanning his words, and of speaking
with a degree of deliberation that seems affected. He would be quite
pleasant, however, were it not that his mind is constantly tortured by an
ardent jealousy, and by a no less ardent apprehension of betraying his
weakness, which, nevertheless, is a glaring and obvious fact to every one.
It is difficult to understand how, with such a disposition and a great
deal of common sense, he has committed the signal error of marrying, at
the age of fifty-five, a young and pretty woman, and a creole, I believe,
in the bargain.

"Monsieur de Breuilly!" said the marquis, as he presented me to the
punctilious gentleman, "my best friend, who will infallibly become yours
also, and who, quite as infallibly, will cut your throat if you attempt to
show any attention to his wife."

"Mon Dieu! my dear friend," replied Monsieur de Breuilly, with a laugh
that was anything but joyful, and accentuating each word in his peculiar
style, "why represent me to this gentleman as a Norman Othello? Monsieur
may surely--monsieur is perfectly free to--besides, he knows and can