who had also come down to see the show.  He promptly grasped the situation, hurried back to the house, and produced beef and mayonnaise sandwiches, and a splendid savarin with whipped cream in the middle (so we naturally didn’t have any dessert—­but nobody minded), tea, chocolate, and whiskey, of course.  As soon as it began to get dark we all adjourned to the lawn.  All the carriages, the big breaks with four horses, various lighter vehicles, grooms and led horses were massed at the top of the lawn, just where it rises slightly to meet the woods.  A little lower down was Hubert, the huntsman (a cousin of our coachman, Hubert, who was very pleased to do the honours of his stable-yard), with one or two valets de chiens, the pack of dogs, and a great whip, which was very necessary to keep the pack back until he allowed them to spring upon the carcass of the stag.  He managed them beautifully.  Two men held up the stag—­the head had already been taken off; it was a fine one, with broad, high antlers, a dix cors.  Twice Hubert led his pack up, all yelping and their eyes starting out of their heads, and twice drove them back, but the third time he let them spring on the carcass.  It was an ugly sight, the compact mass of dogs, all snarling and struggling, noses down and tails up.  In a few minutes nothing was left of the poor beast but bones, and not many of them.  Violet had les honneurs du pied (the hoof of one of the hind legs of the stag), which is equivalent to the “brush” one gives in fox-hunting.  She thanked M. M., the master of hounds, very prettily and said she would have it arranged and hang it up in the hall of her English home, in remembrance of a lovely winter afternoon, and her first experience of what still remains of the old French venerie.  The horns sounded again the curee and the depart, and the whole company gradually dispersed, making quite a cortege as they moved down the avenue, horses and riders disappearing in the gray mist that was creeping up from the canal, and the noise of wheels and hoofs dying away in the distance.

[Illustration:  Some red-coated, some green, all with breeches and high muddy boots.]

* * * * *

We were pottering about in our woods one day, waiting for Labbez (the keeper) to come and decide about some trees that must be cut down, when a most miserable group emerged from one of the side alleys and slipped by so quickly and quietly that we couldn’t speak to them.  A woman past middle age, lame, unclothed really—­neither shoes nor stockings, not even a chemise—­two sacks of coarse stuff, one tied around her waist half covering her bare legs, one over her shoulders; two children with her, a big overgrown girl of about twelve, equally without clothing, an old black bodice gaping open over her bare skin, held together by one button, a short skirt so dirty and torn that one wondered what kept it on, no shoes nor stockings, black hair falling straight down over