The man with the hooded coat who was walking
by the side of the horse, suddenly cried out
"Wo!" in a sturdy voice; then ran to the back
of the carriage and cried out "Wo!" again;
and then we came to a stand-still. In another
moment he had mounted on the step of the
carriage and had taken me cordially by the
hand.

"What," he said, "awake at last? Thank
Heaven! I had almost begun to despair of
you."

"My dear friend, what does all this mean?
Where am I? Where did you come from?
This is not my calèche, that is not my horse."

"Both are safe behind," said Dufay, heartily;
"and having told you so much, I will not
utter another word till you are safe and warm
at the Lion d'Or. See! There are the lights
of the town. Now, not another word." And
pulling the horsecloth under which I was
lying, more closely over me, my friend
dismounted from the step; started the vehicle
with the customary cry of "Allons donc!" and
a crack of the whip; and we were soon once
more in motion.

Castaing Dufay was a man into whose company
circumstances had thrown me very often,
and with whom I had become intimate from
choice. Of the numerous class to which he
belonged, those men whose sturdy vehicles and
sturdier horses are to be seen standing in the
yards and stables of all the inns in provincial
France—the class of the commis-voyageurs, or
French commercial travellers—Castaing Dufay
was more than a favourable specimen. I was
very fond of him. In the course of our intimacy,
I had been fortunate enough to have the
opportunity of being useful to him in matters of
some importance. I think, Gentlemen, we like
those we have served, quite as well as they like
us.

The town lights were, indeed, close by, and
it was not long before we turned into the yard
of the Lion d'Or and found ourselves in the
midst of warmth and brightness, and surrounded
by faces which, after the dangers I had passed
through, looked perfectly angelic.

I had no idea, till I attempted to move, how
weak and dazed I was. I was too far gone for
dinner. A bed and a fire were the only things
I coveted, and I was soon in possession of
both.

I was no sooner snugly ensconced with my
head on the pillow, watching the crackling logs
as they sparkled—my little Nelly lying outside
the counterpane—than my friend seated
himself beside me and volunteered to relieve
my curiosity as to the circumstances of my
escape from the Tête Noire. It was now my
turn to refuse to listen; as it had been his before,
to refuse to speak.

"Not one word," I said, " till you have had
a good dinner, after which you will come up and
sit beside me, and tell me all I am longing
to know. And stay—you will do one thing more
for me, I know; when you come up you will
bring a plateful of bones for Nelly; she will not
leave me to-night, I swear, to save herself from
starving."

"She deserves some dinner," said Dufay, as
he left the room, "for I think it is through her
instrumentality that you are alive at this
moment."

The bliss in which I lay after Dufay had left
the room, is known only to those who have passed
through some great danger, or who, at least, are
newly relieved from some condition of severe and
protracted suffering. It was a state of perfect
repose and happiness.

When my friend came back, he brought: not
only a plate of fowl-bones for Nelly, but a basin
of soup for me. When I had finished lapping
it up, and while Nelly was still crunching the
bones, Dufay spoke as follows:

"I said just now that it was to your little dog
you owe the preservation of your life, and I
must now tell you how it was. You remember
that you left Doulaise this morning——"

"It seems a week ago," I interrupted.

—"This morning," continued Dufay. "Well!
You were hardly out of the inn-yard before I
drove into it, having made a small stage before
breakfast. I heard where you were gone, and,
as I was going that way too, I determined to
give my horse a rest of a couple of hours, while
I breakfasted and transacted some business in
the town, and then to set off after you. 'Have
you any idea,' I said, as I left the inn at
Doulaise, 'whether monsieur meant to stop en
route, and if so, where?' The garçon did not
know. 'Let me see,' I said, 'the Tête Noire
at Mauconseil would be a likely place, wouldn't
it?' 'No,' said the boy; 'the house does not enjoy
a good character, and no one from here ever stops
there.' 'Well,' said I, thinking no more of
what he said, 'I shall be sure to find him. I will
inquire after him as I go along.'

"The afternoon was getting on, when I came
within sight of the inn of the Tête Noire. As
you know, I am a little near-sighted, but I saw,
as I drew near the auberge, that a conveyance
of some kind was being taken round to the yard
at the back of the house. This circumstance,
however, I should have paid no attention to,
had not my attention been suddenly caught by
the violent barking of a dog, which seemed to
be trying to gain admittance at the closed door
of the inn. At a second glance I knew the dog
to be yours. Pulling up my horse, I got down
and ascended the steps of the auberge. One
sniff at my shins was enough to convince Nelly
that a friend was at hand, and her excitement as
I approached the door was frantic.

"On my entering the house I did not at first
see you, but on looking in the direction towards
which your dog had hastened as soon as the door
was opened, I saw a dark wooden staircase,
which led out of one corner of the apartment I
was standing in. I saw also, that you, my friend,
were being dragged up the stairs in the arms of
a very ill-looking man, assisted by (if possible)
a still more ill-looking little girl, who had charge
of your legs. At sight of me, the man deposited
you upon the stairs, and advanced to meet me.