One fine day there came to Trouville a travelling dentist and quack, a sort of Dr. Dulcamara, who established his cart on the quai near the fish market. He announced himself as “La Gloire de la Science,” the favourite medicine-man and confidant of the Emperor of Russia and the other Crowned Heads of Europe. He was dressed in an old ragged blue military coatee with scarlet worsted epaulettes, dirty white breeches and top-boots. On his head rested the dignity of a huge cocked hat with a tall tricolor plume. He carried a gigantic sword, and his warlike appearance was enhanced by a pair of phenomenal black moustachios. In attendance upon him were a performer on the key-bugle and a _pitre_, or jack-pudding, whose business it was at the psychological moment to bang a big drum and crash a pair of cymbals in order to drown the howls of the victims of dentistry. Marie Letac, who had been suffering from toothache, was wild to go and consult the “Glory of Science.” My aunt promised to pay the fee, so off she went and mounted the learned doctor’s cart. A little while later we went out and met Marie Letac with a duster before her mouth, bleeding profusely, crying with pain, yet half laughing at her own plight—one might almost say weeping merrily. “Well,” said my aunt, “so you have had it out?” “Seven of them,” blurted out Marie. “Seven! Impossible!” “Oh! du moment que c’est mademoiselle qui régale!” and with that she went off bleeding but content. The man of pills, potions, and forceps did a roaring trade that day; the drum and cymbals were never idle, and there was a great crowd of sailors and fishwives, standing unwearied for many hours, happy in the enjoyment of an exhibition which was free, and in the contemplation of the pain of their friends and neighbours. I think, though it is anticipating by a good many years, that I must finish the story of our relations with Marie Letac. She remained with us all the time we were in France, and was heart-broken when we left—that was in 1846. We spent the summer holidays of that year at Tunbridge Wells, and one day, as we were all sitting at luncheon, there came a ring at the bell, and we were told that there was a French beggar-woman who wanted to see my aunt. She ran out of the room and presently came back with Marie, travel-stained, tired, footsore, and almost worn out, but crying for very happiness. She said that she could bear the separation no longer, so she had gone to Havre, taken boat for Southampton, and walked all the way to Tunbridge Wells. How she managed to find the road, not knowing a word of English and almost penniless, was a puzzle. She had an addressed envelope and that was all, but here and there she met with a kind person who knew a little French and helped her, and so at last the faithful creature reached us. She did not stay very long, for she had her husband and the hardy annuals to look after, and she was sent back to Normandy, this time travelling decently and in comfort.