Our maid, Batilde, knew nothing about the _cuisine_ beyond a good _roux_ and a bad omelet; and except making a bed, appeared ignorant of all housework--even washing, dusting, or sweeping thoroughly. She, however, did everything we did not do for ourselves, and ironed the linen after a fashion. Tonette washed for us in the little river aforesaid, where she used an incredible quantity of soap, thumping our things with a piece of flat wood upon a great stone, most conveniently, as she observed, placed there for the purpose 'by the saints in heaven;' which method, if it hastened its wearing out, made our linen at least sweet and clean while it lasted. My husband shot and cultivated the garden in the respective seasons appropriate to these occupations, whilst I bought a cookery-book called 'Les Experiences de Mademoiselle Marguerite;' and pretending to be learning myself, taught Batilde to prepare our food a little better, without hurting her self-conceit, of which she possessed more than the average of her countrywomen. Our time, therefore, was fully occupied. Our health improved and our spirits rose with the excitement; we had agreeable society in the excellent people named above, meeting _sans facon_, taking breakfast or luncheon with each other, instead of dinners, in winter, and in summer often spending the evening at one another's houses. At a distance not insurmountable there was an English chapel; but the character of the clergyman was not of a kind to recommend itself to persons who had some regard for the decencies of life; and so we contented ourselves with saying our prayers at home. The old cure of the place, with whom we became slightly acquainted, seemed to be a worthy sort of man, liberal in his ideas, and possessed of a considerable taste for music. He made rather an agreeable and obliging neighbour.