As it is now nearly nine hours since we pic-nic'd
in the van immediately after leaving Calais, and
as the pangs of hunger are beginning to assert
themselves, I suggest to my companion an
adjournment to the refreshment-room of the
station: the doors of which stand invitingly
open, and whence comes a maddening smell.
But he shrugs his shoulders negatively, and,
while smiling at my ignorance, expresses him-
self desolated to be compelled to make me
know that we must be immediately again on the
road. Nevertheless, he adds, looking round,
hope does not fail him that he will be enabled
in some manner to meet the wishes of Monsieur.
"Ah, la v'là!"—there she is!—he will have the
honour of presenting me to Madame. Indeed,
at that minute, Madame, stout, comely, and
middle-aged, issues from one of the offices on
the platform, and is immediately embraced by
my comrade, who introduces me witli impres-
sive ceremony—profoundly ignorant of my
name, but strong on my official designation.
Madame, as I afterwards learn, is a Lyonnaise,
and has the bright black beady eyes, the ruddy,
bronzed complexion, the fresh, gleaming teeth,
and the large hands and coarse features, of her
countrywomen. Madame is by no means a wo-
man to be despised on account of her personal
appearance; but oh! she is dearer to me on
account of a basket which is suspended on her
arm—a basket from the lid of which peeps forth
the neck of a long bottle, and through whose
cracks are seen visions of a white napkin! Short
time for greeting is accorded to husband and
wife; only hurried inquiries as to the welfare
of little Dodo can be made and responded to;
for the special train is announced as ready, and
we must hurry into it. But we take the basket
with us, and, long before we have escaped from
the suburbs, while we hurry through the out-
skirts of the town, and yet catch glimpses of
its bustle and animation, we are again deep
into the mysteries of Lyons sausage, and have
again made acquaintance with some excellent
Médoc.

The meal over, the misery of the journey
commences, and, truth to tell, is continued, thence
until our arrival at Marseilles. The country
through which we pass, is flat, dreary, and mo-
notonous, save in the immediate neighbourhood
of Lyons. Even there, it is not sufficiently
beautiful to cause enthusiasm, and my com-
rade and I, two men of different countries,
habits, and modes of life, and with but a few
hours' acquaintance, cannot possibly have any
subjects of common interest. We talk, it is true;
he tells me of his private life, how that he is in-
variably chosen, when the Emperor travels, to act
as courier to the imperial cortége, how he con-
ducts himself on these occasions, and how the Em-
peror infallibly addresses to him words of re-
spect and admiration. Deeming this in my
own heart to be a fabrication, and not wishing
the national honour of England to be outdone
(as I feel it would be, were I not to be as
distinguished as the representative of France),
I with great tact draw off the conversation to
the subject of field-sports, and depict in the
most glowing colours a fox-hunt in which I
enacted the principal part, and covered myself
with glory. I succeed, my friend is crushed,
but vaulting ambition overleaps itself and meets
its proper reward; henceforth there is no con-
fidence between us, we bore each other horribly,
and as the day drags on and a cold dull grey
twilight creeps over us, I feel horrible prompt-
ings to fling myself bodily on my companion
and do him some mortal injury. At night-
fall, we stop somewhere and dine together, and
are social, and clink glasses, and say something
about that celebrated "cordial understanding,"
but all the warmth vanishes when we again re-
turn to our van, where I wrap myself, like
January, and where the French Courier, knee-
deep in his sheepskin muffler, throws a gigantic
shadow on the wall, reminding me of a carica-
ture of an influenza'd old gentleman with his
feet in a pail of hot water. So, on through
the night; and so, on till six in the morning,
when we find ourselves rushing into Marseilles,
with a heavy snow-storm driving round us.

A portion of the Marseilles terminus is de-
voted to post-office purposes, and hither I repair
to fetch the French mail for India, which should be
ready made up, and awaiting my arrival. I enter a
large room occupied by half a dozen men, four of
whom are lazily making up the mail, pitching
letters and newspapers into the various boxes
scattered about the floor with the greatest compo-
sure, and stopping at intervals to exchange jokes:
while a fifth lounges from group to group, smoking
a cigar, under pretence of superintending. The
sixth man stands patiently by, bearing a small cal-
dron of boiling sealing-wax. I address myself to
the cigar-smoker, and, knowing that the steamer
is waiting for me, demand with some slight
asperity whether the mail is ready? No, he
frankly confesses, it is not! Sacred name of
war, there has been some delay! To him the
fault, perhaps, but it imports not. Now, let
us go! let us make haste! Thousand thunders,
let us make haste!

But they do not make haste, neither do
they do their business decently; and their
rickety wooden boxes, with the tops badly
nailed on and bedaubed with a splodge of
parti-coloured wax, contrast unfavourably with
my trim iron chests. The cigar-smoker, too,
is evidently not a second Cocker, and the
tremendous struggle which goes on inside
him as he is making out and casting the
way-bill, is a sight. But he finishes this
document at last, and after transferring
various blots with his finger from the paper
to his hair, he takes it up in triumph, and
requests me to accompany him to the office of
his chief.

Thither we proceed, and there we find
—the chief himself: a hard-featured man,
with close-cropped hair and thick, stubbly
beard, like the caricatures of Frenchmen
popular in cheap comic publications: and the
chief's wife, whom it is very refreshing to look
upon, as she is young and very pretty, and is