I am allowed
to place you for the present at Beutin, a pleasant little hamlet on
the Canche, where lives an old relative of mine, a Monsieur Jalais, an
ancient widower, with a large house and one servant. I shall be afloat,
and shall see but little of you, which is the only sad part of the
business. You will have to report yourself to your landlord at eight
every morning and at eight o'clock at night, and only to leave the house
between those hours, and not to wander more than six miles from home.
How do these conditions approve themselves to you?"
"I call them very liberal, and very handsome," Scudamore answered, as
he well might do. "Two miles' range is all that we allow in England to
French officers upon parole. These generous terms are due to your kind
friendship."
Before very long the gentle Scuddy was as happy as a prisoner can expect
to be, in his comfortable quarters at Beutin. Through friendly exchanges
he had received a loving letter from his mother, with an amiable
enclosure, and M. Jalais being far from wealthy, a pleasant arrangement
was made between them. Scudamore took all his meals with his host, who
could manage sound victuals like an Englishman, and the house-keeper,
house-cleaner, and house-feeder (misdescribed by Desportes as a servant,
according to our distinctions), being a widow of mark, sat down to
consider her cookery upon choice occasions. Then for a long time would
prevail a conscientious gravity, and reserve of judgment inwardly,
everybody waiting for some other body's sentiments; until the author of
the work, as a female, might no more abide the malignant silence of male
reviewers.
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