 | Seven stories, with basement and attic |  |
FIFTH STORY:
THE CABRIOLET.
A HOT July day in Paris. It is hard to be borne;
and shall I persist in frying my daily dish
of nettlepots under the leads of the Hôtel de Louvre,
when a day will carry me where I may take breath and
refreshment under the waving poplars that tuft French
wayside—stiff, serried plumes that run everywhere in
France out to the horizon, and keep up the illusion of
army clank and marching grenadiers?
Will the reader join me in this escapade into the
French country—where I will not poetize, but will tell,
simply and truly, what I see, and what I hear?
Do you not love to amble, after all, with this sort of
traveller, who admits you to pack with him, to eat his
with him, to see common things commonly? Are not
all the great things in the guide-books, the gift-books,
and the poets? Can I kindle them over? Are they
not burned to a crisp in your thought already—only
ashes left,—which you spread upon your own fancies (as
wood-ashes to home patches of clover) to make them
grow?
Well—we (the reader and I) pack our portmanteau;
'tis a small one; when you are old in travel you will always
carry a small one; the more experience, the less
the luggage; if you need coat or linen, you shall find
coat and linen in every capital of Europe; they wear
such things in all civilized countries; they sell them,
too. We therefore bundle together only such things as
we positively need, and giving them into the hands of a
facteur, we direct him to carry our luggage to the office
of the Diligences, a little way out of the Rue St.
Honoré. We book our portmanteau there for the eastern
town of Dôle, lying in the way to Switzerland, and
within sight of the best vineyard slopes of Burgundy.
Our next step shall be to go around to the passage
Vero-Dodat, and buy a goat-skin knapsack; it is large
enough for a change of linen, a guide-book, an extra
pair of woollen socks, soap and brushes, a pocket-telescope,
and perhaps a miniature Tennyson—for rainy
days in the mountains.
With this—a slouch, broad-brimmed hat, a serviceable
tweed suit, and heavy walking shoes, we call a cab,
drive down the Rue Rivoli and the Rue St. Antonie,
—cross the Place of the Bastile, and arrive presently at
the station-house of the Lyons Railway. We pay a
fare of twenty-five sous (we should have paid a dollar
in New York), and take a ticket for Fontainbleau.
Why should we, with our hob-nailed shoes and
tweed overalls take a first-class place? Ah, the tenderly-proud
Americans! so vain of extravagance—so jealous
of anything like privilege—what muttons they
make for the innkeepers! We have outlived this; we
take a second-class seat; we pay less by a third; we
see more of the natives by half; we have plenty of air;
we have cushioned seats (though they may be covered
with striped bed-ticking); and the chances are even
that we shall have beside us some member of the Institute
of France, some eminent professional man, who
dislikes at once the seclusion and the price of the first-class
carriage.
Away we hurtle; the houses, the trees, the fortifications,
the plains, the great outstanding barracks, the
white villages, drift into the dreamy distance, where the
domes of Paris gleam in the haze like sparkling dandelions
on a dewy meadow. When we stop at Fontainebleau,
after a two hours' ride, we deliver our ticket
within the station-house; and as we shoulder our knapsack,
train as it sweeps on toward Lyons.
We stop at the inn of the Cadran Bleu; a fat landlady
receives us—shows us to a little chamber, not so
large, perhaps, as your attic rooms of the New York
hotels, but only up a single flight of stairs; the floor is
of red tiles, which have been waxed that morning only,
and shine, and would seem slippery, except for our
good hob-nailed shoes. There is a dainty bed, with
coarse, cool, clean linen, and a water-pitcher of most
Liliputian make.
“Has Monsieur breakfasted?”
Of course we have breakfasted before ten o'clock;
still we will have a bite, since the ride and the fresh
air of the country have sharpened our appetite.
We will have a steak aux pommes, and a half bottle
of Beaune, and perhaps a bit of cheese and a plate of
cherries.
“Très bien!” says the landlady. And when we
have washed the dust from our eyes, and gone below,
into the long salle-à-manger, a tidy French girl (who
would be a grisette if she went to Paris) is laying our
cloth upon an end of the table, and we snuff the odor
of the steak, mingled with that of the jessamines from
the garden. And as we eat with sharpened taste (for
the Beaune is an appetizing wine), we rejoice in the
pleasant escape we have made; we compare that quiet
and only a stone's-throw away from the magnificent
home of Francis the First, with the lunches you may be
taking in the crowd of Saratoga or Newport, amidst the
clamor of a hundred waiters, and—frankly—we pity
you. In sheerest benevolence, we wish we might single
out a pretty face and figure from the hubbub of your
watering places, and place them beside us here in the
Cadran Bleu, and turn out a drop of the petillant, generous
wine, to moisten the fair lips withal;—how she
would forget the hob-nails, and we—the hoops;—how we
would luxuriate in the cool, scented air, and loiter away
afterward in the coppices of the palace garden!
As we said, the great things of travel are all familiar;
we leave them utterly; we pass through the Palace-yard—away
from the companies of strangers who
are passing in and out of the royal apartments—and
loiter on along the terrace, to the parapet that skirts the
garden pond. We sit there, idly nicking our hob-nailed
shoes against the wall, looking over to the rich sweep
of lawn and clumps of shrubbery that stretch away from
the farther shore. We buy a cake from an old woman,
and break it, and fling it to the fishes; these come
crowding to the bait by hundreds—heavy, lumbering
carp, who have lived in those waters these fifty years,
perhaps a century, and may have risen to catch bread-crumbs
from the hand of some pretty Dauphiness in
wagging their tails gravely, and blotched over with
gray spots, who it is said, date back as far as the times
of Francis the First. What a quiet, serene life they
must have passed! How much more royally than kings
they have braved the storms and the weaknesses of age!
The air is delightfully cool; the fragrance of a thousand
flowering things is on it; the shadow of the farther
trees falls heavy on the water. There are worse places
to loiter in than the gardens of Fontainbleau.
What, now, if we wander away into the forest, comparing,
as we go, the nibbling, ancient fishes of the
pool, to that bait-seeking fry we have seen in other
times and other watering-places—fat, dowdy dowagers;
brisk young misses, in shoals; bright-waistcoated bucks
—all disporting like the carp—coming by turns to the
surface—making a little break and a few eddies—catching
at floating crumbs—and retiring, when the season
is over, to hibernate under some overhanging roof-tree
which they call Home?
Oaks, beeches, tangled undergrowth, moss under-foot,
gray boulders, long vistas of highway
stretching to a low horizon; artists sketching on
camp-stools; Mr. Smith, and wife and daughter;
driving in a crazy phaeton (wife and daughter wearing
green frights, and reading Mr. Murray)—all these we
see, as we loiter on through the paths of the forest. We
for our dinner at the Cadran Bleu; Mr. Smith and
wife and daughter are just finishing theirs, at the end of
the long table. They mistake our nationality, and remark
somewhat freely upon French taste in matters of
diet. They are apparently from Huddersfield; they do
not once suspect that a man with a beard, whom they
meet at the Cadran Bleu, can speak or understand
English. So, as we eat our filet sauté aux champignons,
we learn that the oaks in Windsor Park are much finer
than those of Fontainbleau; that the French beer is
watery stuff; and that the Americans are not the only
self-satisfied people in the world.
Mr. Smith, wife and daughter, drop away at length;
we wander under the shade of the palace walls; a dragoon
passes from time to time, with sabre clattering at
his heels; the clock in the great court, where Napoleon
bade his army adieu before Elba, sounds ten as we turn
back to the inn; and from our window we see the stars
all aglow, and feel the breath of the forest.
Coffee at six with two fresh eggs. If you carry a
knapsack, you must carry early habits with it. The
hostess brings our little bill, smilingly; we promised to
tell you of commonest details, so you shall see the price
of our entertainment:
| Lunch | 2 francs. |
| Wine | 2 francs. |
| Dinner | 4 francs. |
| Room | 3 francs. |
| Wax-light | 1 franc. |
| Breakfast | 2 francs. |
| Service | 1 franc. |
Being a total of fifteen francs. It is not over dear,
when we reckon the pleasant Burgundy we have drunk,
and remember, too, that Fontainbleau is as near (in
time) to Paris, as Rockaway to New York.
How the birds sing in the woods; and how the
dew shines upon the nodding clover, which shows
itself here and there by the wayside! After two
hours' march—better than two leagues—we sit down
in the edge of the forest. We have passed a woodman
with his cart, a boy driving cattle, and a soldier with
his coat slung over his shoulder. We shall scarce
see any others till we are out of the wood.
A half hour there, under the oaks, and we are
ready for the tramp again. We are only putting ourselves
in walking trim for the passes of Switzerland,
and so take this level country very leisurely. The little
town of Fossard lies just upon the outskirts of the
forest. We welcome it gladly; for by the time it is
reached it is full noon. There is a straggling, white,
low cottage of stone, covered with mortar, and shaded
the first; a woman in sabots (which are heavy beechen
shoes); and at last a larger cottage, with a fern bough
over the door, and a floor covered with baked tiles,
glossed over with grease, wax, and filth. The bough
means that we may find bread, cheese, and wine there,
and if not over-fastidious, a bed. The bread we take,
and a bottle of sour wine; and sit at the deal table,
writing there very much of what you are reading now,
in our pocket note-book.
So we push on our summer jaunt; fatigue; rest in
villages; strange dishes of stewed pears; Gruyère
cheese; country fairs, where at eventide, we see the
maidens dancing on the green sward; high old towns
with toppling towers; walks through vineyards; long
levels; woody copses, over which we see extinguisher
turrets of country chateaux.
But all this grows tiresome at length; and when we
have reached the little shabby town of St. Florentin, on
the third day, we venture to inquire about some coach
(for we are away from the neighborhood of railways)
which shall take us on to Dôle. But at St. Florentin
there is no coach, not even so much as a voiture à volonté,
to be found; so we buckle on our knapsack, and toil along
under the poplars to a little village far off in the plain,
where we are smuggled into what passes for the coupé
of a broken-down diligence. A man and little girl, who
fricandeau stuffed with garlic. The day is cool, the
windows down, the air close, and the perfume—(when
you travel on the by-ways of France, learn patience).
That night we reach a town where lived that prince
of boys' story-books about animals—Buffon. A tower
rises on the hills beside the town, covered with ivy—
gray, and venerable, and sober-looking; and the postillion
says it is Buffon's tower, and that the town is called
Buffon.
We desire to get to Dôle as soon as possible; so the
next morning—voilá un cabriolet!—to catch the diligence
that passes through the old town of Semur. This
French cabriolet which we take at Buffon, is very much
like a Scotch horse-cart with a top upon it. It has a
broad leather-cushioned seat in the back, large enough
for three persons. One is already occupied by a pretty
woman, of some four or five and twenty. The postillion
is squatted on a bit of timber that forms the whipple-tree.
We bid adieu to our accommodating landlady,
take off our hat to the landlady's daughter, and so go
jostling out of the old French town of Buffon, which,
ten to one, we shall never see again in our lives.
What think you, pray, of a drive in a French cabriolet,
with a pretty woman of five and twenty? We
will tell you all—just as it happened. Our eigar chances
to be unfinished. “Of course, smoking was offensive to
mademoiselle?”
It proved otherwise; “Oh no! her husband was a
great smoker.”
“Ah, ma foi! can it be that madame, so young, is
indeed married!”
“It is indeed true”—and there is a glance both of
pleasure and of sadness in the woman's eye.
We begin to speculate upon what that gleam of
pleasure and of sadness may mean; and, finally, curiosity
gains on speculation. “Perhaps madame is travelling
from Paris like ourselves!”
“No; but she has been at Paris. What a charming
city! those delicious Boulevards and the shops, and
the Champs Elysées!”
“And if madame is not coming from Paris, perhaps
she is going to Paris?”
“Non plus;” even now we are not right. “She
is coming from Chalons, she is going to Semur.”
“Madame lives then, perhaps, at Semur?”
“Pardon, she is going for a visit.”
“And her husband is left alone then?”
“Pardon” (and there is a manifest sigh), he is not
alone.” And madame rearranges the bit of lace on each
side of her bonnet, and turns half around, so as to show
more fairly a very pretty brunette face, and an exceedingly
roguish eye.
“We are curious to know if it is madame's first visit
to Semur?”
“Du tout!” and she sighs.
“Madame then has friends at Semur?”
“Ma foi! je ne saurais vous dire.” She does not
know.
This is very odd, we think. “And who can madame
be going to visit?”
“Her father—if he is still living.”
“But how can she doubt, if she has lived so near as
Chalons?”
“Pardon, I have not lived at Chalons, but at Bordeaux,
and Montpelier, and Pau, and along the Biscayan
mountains.”
“And is it long since she has seen her father?”
“Very long; ten long—long years; then they were
so happy! Ah! the charming country of Semur; the
fine sunny vineyards, and all so gay, and her sister and
little brother—” (madame pulls a handkerchief of battiste
out of a little silken bag).
We turn slightly to have a fuller sight of her.
We knew “it would be a glad thing to meet them
all!”
“Jamais, Monsieur, never, I can not; they are
gone!” and she turned her head away.
The French country-women are simple-minded, earnest,
and tell a story much better and easier than any
women in the world. We thought—we said, indeed—
“she was young to have wandered so far; she must have
years gone-by.”
“Very young—very foolish, Monsieur. I see,” says
she, turning, “that you want to know how it was, and
if you will be so good as to listen, I will tell you, Monsieur.”
Of course we were very happy to listen to so charming
a story-teller; and our readers as well, perhaps.
“You know, Monsieur, the quiet of one of our little
country towns very well; Semur is one of them. My
father was a small propriétaire; the house he lived in is
not upon the road, or I would show it to you by-and-by.
It had a large court-yard, with an arched gateway—
and there were two hearts cut upon the top stone; the
initials of my grandfather and grandmother on either
side; and all were pierced by a little dart. I dare say
you have seen many such as you have wandered through
the country; but now-a-days they do not make them.
“Well, my mother died when I was a little girl,
and my father was left with three children—my sister,
little Jacques, and I. Many and many a time we used
to romp about the court-yard, and sometimes go into
the fields at vineyard dressing, and pluck off the long
tendrils; and I would tie them round the head of little
Jacques; and my sister, who was a year older than I,
and whose name was Lucie, would tie them around my
head. It looked very pretty, to be sure, Monsieur; and
wish they would come back, Monsieur—those times!
Do you know I think sometimes that, in Heaven, they
will come back?
“I do not know which was prettiest—Lucie or I;
she was taller and had lighter hair; and mine, you see,
is dark. (Two rows of curls hung each side of her
face, jet black.) I know I was never envious of her.”
“There was little need.”
“You think not, Monsieur; you shall see, presently.
“I have told you that my father was a small propri
étaire; there was another in the town whose lands were
greater than ours, and who boasted of having been
some time connected with noble blood, and who quite
looked down upon our family. But there is little of
that feeling left now in the French country—and I thank
God for it, Monsieur. And Jean Frère, who was a son
of this proud gentleman, had none of it when we were
young.
“There was no one in the village he went to see
oftener than he did Lucie and me. And we talked like
girls then, about who should marry Jean, and never
thought of what might really happen; and our bonne
used to say, when we spoke of Jean, that there were
others as good as Jean in the land, and capital husbands
in plenty. And then we would laugh, and sometimes
girl, and so marry them, and never mind Jacques' pettish
struggles, and the pouts of the little bride; and
Jean himself would laugh as loud as any at this play.
“Sometimes Jean's father would come when we were
romping together, and take Jean away; and sometimes
kiss little Jacques, and say he was a young rogue, but
have never a word for us.
“So matters went on till Lucie was eighteen, and
Jacques a fine tall lad. Jean was not so rich as he had
been, for his father's vineyard had grown poor. Still
he came to see us, and all the village said there would
be a marriage some day; and some said it would be
Lucie, and some said it would be I.
“And now it was I began to watch Lucie when
Jean came; and to count the times he danced with Lucie,
and then to count the times that he danced with me.
But I did not dare to joke with Lucie about Jean, and
when we were together alone, we scarce ever talked of
Jean.”
“You were not in love with him, of course?”
“I did not say so,” said madame. “But he was
handsomer than any of the young men we saw; and I
so young—never mind!
“You do not know how jealous I became. We had
a room together, Lucie and I, and often in the night I
would steal to her bed and listen, to find if she ever
I came in at evening, I would find her weeping. I remember
I went to her once, and put my arm softly
around her neck, and asked her what it was that troubled
her; and she only sobbed. I asked her if I had
offended her; `You!' said she, `ma sœur, ma mignonne!'
and she laid her head upon my shoulder, and cried
more than ever; and I cried too.
“So matters went on, and we saw, though we did
not speak to each other of it, that Jean came to see us
more and more rarely, and looked sad when he parted
with us, and did not play so often with little Jacques.
“At length—how it was we women never knew—
it was said that poor Jean's father, the proud gentleman,
had lost all his money, and that he was going
away to Paris. We felt very badly; and we asked
Jean, the next time he came to see us, if it was all true?
He said that it was true, and that the next year they
were going away, and that he should never see us again.
Poor Jean!—how he squeezed my hand as he said this;
but in his other hand he held Lucie's. Lucie was more
sensitive than I, and when I looked at her, I could see
that the tears were coming in her eyes.
“`You will be sorry when I am gone?' said Jean.
“`You know we shall,' said I; and I felt the tears
coming too.
“A half year had gone, and the time was approaching
to pass his evenings with us; he was always a little
moody, as if some trouble was preying on his
mind; and was always very kind to Lucie, and kinder
still, I thought, to me.
“At length, one day, his father, a stately old gentleman,
came down and asked to see my father; and he
staid with him half an hour, and the thing was so new
that the whole village said there would be a marriage.
And I wandered away alone with little Jacques, and sat
down under an old tree—I shall try hard to find the
place—and twisted a garland for little Jacques, and
then tore it in pieces; and twisted another and tore that
in pieces, and then cried, so that Jacques said he believed
I was crazy. But I kissed him and said, `No,
Jacques, sister is not crazy!'
“When I went home, I found Lucie sad, and papa
sober and thoughtful; but he kissed me very tenderly,
and told me, as he often did, how dearly he loved me.
The next day Jean did not come, nor the next, nor the
next after. I could not bear it any longer, so I asked
papa what Jean's father had said to him, and why Jean
did not come?
“He kissed me, and said that Jean wanted to take
his child away from him. And I asked him—though I
remember I had hardly breath to do it—what he had
told him?
“`I told him,' said papa, `that if Lucie would marry
Jean, and Jean would marry Lucie, they might marry,
and I would give them a father's blessing.'
“I burst into tears, and my father took me in his
arms; perhaps he thought I was so sorry to lose my
sister—I don't know. When I had strength to go to
our chamber, I threw myself into Lucie's arms and
cried as if my heart would break.
“She asked me what it meant? I said—`I love
you, Lucie!' And she said—`I love you, Lisette!'
“But soon I found that Jean had sent no message—
that he had not come—that all I told Lucie, of what my
father had said, was new to her; and she cried afresh;
and we dared say nothing to her of Jean. I fancied
how it was; for Jean's father was a proud gentleman,
and would never make a second request of such bourgeois
as we. Soon we heard that he had gone away,
and that he had taken Jean along with him. I longed
to follow—to write him even; but, poor Lucie!—I was
not certain but he might come back to claim her. Often
and often I wandered up by his father's old country
house, and I asked the steward's wife how he was looking
when he went away. `Oh,' said she, `le pauvre
jeune homme; he was so sad to leave his home!'
“And I thought to myself bitterly,—did this make
all his sadness?
“A whole year passed by, and we heard nothing of
and a young officer came occasionally to see us. Now,
Monsieur, I am ashamed to tell you what followed.
Lucie had not forgotten Jean: and I—God knows!—
had not forgotten him. But papa said that the officer
would make a good husband for me, and he told me as
much himself. I did not disbelieve him; but I did not
love him as I had loved Jean, and I doubted if Jean
would come back, and I knew not but he would come
back to marry Lucie, though I felt sure that he loved
me better than Lucie. So, Monsieur, it happened that
I married the young officer, and became a soldier's wife,
and in a month went away from my old home.
“But that was not the worst, Monsieur; before I
went, there came a letter from Paris for me, in Jean's
own writing.”
Madame turned her head again. Even the postillion
had suffered his horses to get into a dog-trot jog, that
he now made up for by a terrible thwacking, and a
pestilent shower of oaths; partly, perhaps, to deaden
his feelings.
“The letter,” said madame, going on, “told me
how he had loved me, how his father had told him
what my father had said; and how he had forbidden
him in his pride, to make any second proposal; and
how he had gone away to forget his griefs, but could
not; and he spoke of a time, when he would come back
his father. The whole night I cried over that letter,
but never showed it to Lucie. I was glad that I was
going away; but I could not love my husband.
“You do not know how bitter the parting was for
me; not so much to leave my father and Lucie, and
Jacques, but the old scenes where I had wandered with
Jean, and where we had played together, and where he
was to come back again perhaps, and think as he would
of me. I could not write him a letter even. I was
young then, and did not know but my duty to my husband
would forbid it. But I left a little locket he had
given me, and took out his hair, and put in place of it
a lock of my own, and scratched upon the back with a
needle—`Jean, I loved you; it is too late; I am married;
J'en pleurs!' And I handed it to little Jacques,
and made him promise to show it to no one, but to hand
to Jean, if he ever came again to Semur. Then I kissed
my father, and my sister, and little Jacques again and
again, and bid them all adieu—as well as I could for my
tears; I have never been in Semur since, Monsieur.”
“And what became of Jean?”
“You know,” continued she, “that I could not love
my husband, and I was glad we were going far away,
where I hoped I might forget all that had happened at
home; but God did not so arrange it.
“We were staying in Montpelier; you have been
houses along the Rue de Paris; in one of them we were
living. Every month or two came letters from Lucie—
sad, very sad, at the first—and I forgot about myself
through pity of her. At length came one which told
me that Jean had come back; and it went on to say
how well he was looking. Poor Lucie did not know
how it all went to my soul, and how many tears her letters
cost me.
“Afterward came letters in gayer temper—still
full of the praises of Jean; and she wondered why I was
not glad to hear so much of him, and wondered that my
letters were growing so gloomy. Another letter came
still gayer, and a postscript that cut me to the heart;
the postscript was in Jacques' scrawling hand, and said
that all the village believed that Jean was to marry sister
Lucie. `We shall be so glad,' it said, `if you will
come home to the wedding!'
“Oh, Monsieur, I had thought I loved Lucie. I
am afraid I did not. I wrote no answer; I could
not. By-and-by came a thick letter with two little doves
upon the seal. I went to my room and barred the door,
and cried over it, without daring to open it. The truth
was as I had feared—Jean had married Lucie. Oh, my
feelings—my bitter feelings, Monsieur! Pray Heaven
you may never have such!
“My husband grew indignant at my sadness, and I
quarters to the mountains, where the troops had been
ordered, and for a very long time no letter came to me
from home. I had scarce a heart to write, and spent
day after day in my chamber. We were five years along
the Pyrenees; you remember the high mountains about
Pau, and the snowy tops that you can see from the
houses; but I enjoyed nothing of it all. By-and-by
came a letter with a black seal, in the straggling hand
of my poor father, saying that Jean and Lucie had gone
over the sea to the Isle of Mauritius, and that little
Jacques had sickened of a fever and was dead. I
longed to go and see my old father; but my husband
could not leave, and he was suspicious of me, and
would not suffer me to travel across France alone.
“So I spent years more—only one letter coming to
me in all that time—whether stopped by my husband's
orders or not I do not know. At length he was ordered
with his regiment to Chalons sur Marne; there were
old friends of his at Chalons, with whom he is stopping
now. We passed through Paris and I saw all its wonders;
yet I longed to get toward home. At length we
set off for Chalons. It was five days before I could
get my husband's leave to ride over to my old town.
I am afraid he has grown to hate me now.
“You see that old Chateau in ruins,” says she,
pointing out a mossy remnant of castle, on a hillock to
been there often with Jean and Lucie,” and madame
looks earnestly, and with her whole heart in her eyes,
at the tottering old ruin. We ask the postillion the
name, and jot it down in our note-book.
“And your father knows nothing of your return?”
“I have written from Chalons,” resumed madame,
“but whether he be alive to read it, I do not know.”
And she begins now to detect the cottages, on which
in this old country ten years would make but little difference.
The roofs are covered over with that dappled
moss you see in Watelet's pictures, and the high stone
court-yards are gray with damp and age.
“La voilá!” at length exclaims madame, clapping
her hands; and in the valley into which we have just
turned, and are now crick-cracking along in the crazy
old cabriolet, appears the tall spire of Semur. A brown
tower or two flank it, and there is a group of gray
roofs mingled with the trees.
Madame keeps her hands clasped and is silent.
The postillion gives his hat a jaunty air, and crosses
himself as we pass a church by the way; and the farmeries
pass us one by one; then come the paved streets,
and the pigs, and the turbaned women in sabots, and
boys' eyes, all intent; and thick houses, and provincial
shops.
“The same dear old town of Semur!” says our female
a jolt, we are presently at the door of the inn.
The woman runs her eye hastily over the inn loungers;
apparently she is dissatisfied. We clamber down
and assist her to dismount.
“Shall we make any inquiries for her?”
“Oh, Mon Dieu! j'ai trop de peur!” She is
afraid to ask; she will go see; and away she starts—
turns—throws back her veil—asks pardon—“we have
been so kind”—bids God bless us—waves her hand
and disappears around an angle of the old inn.
'Tis the last we see of her; for, in ten minutes we
are rattling away toward Dôle and the Juras.
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