and had allowed him no earlier chance of visiting
England than the chance of which he had now
availed himself. He was staying with some
friends in the neighbourhood—the Hermit had
been mentioned to him—and here he was, on
the ground of Thomas Tiddler, to deposit his
homage at the feet of that illustrious landed
proprietor.

Was the French visitor surprised? Not the
least in the world. His face showed deep marks
of former care and trouble—perhaps he was past
feeling surprised at anything? By no means.
If he had seen Mr. Mopes on French ground,
he would have been petrified on the spot. But
Mr. Mopes on English ground was only a new
development of the dismal national character.
Given British spleen, as the cause—followed
British suicide, as the effect. Quick suicide (of
which the works of his literary countrymen had
already informed him) by throwing yourself into
the water. Slow suicide (of which his own eyes
now informed him) by burying yourself among
soot and cinders, in a barred kitchen. Curious
either way—but nothing to surprise a well-read
Frenchman.

Leaving our national character to assert itself
to better advantage, when time had given this
gentleman better opportunities of studying it,
Mr. Traveller politely requested him to follow
the relation of the artist's experience with an
experience of his own. After a moment's grave
consideration, the Frenchman said that his early
life had been marked by perils and sufferings
of no ordinary kind. He had no objection to
relate one of his adventures—but he warned
his audience beforehand that they must expect
to be a little startled; and he begged that they
would suspend their opinions of himself and his
conduct, until they had heard him to the end.

After those prefatory words, he began as follows:

I AM a Frenchman by birth, and my name is
François Thierry. I need not weary you with
my early history. Enough, that I committed a
political offence—that I was sent to the galleys
for it—that I am an exile for it to this day.
The brand was not abolished in my time. If I
chose, I could show you the fiery letters on my
shoulder.

I was arrested, tried, and sentenced, in Paris.
I went out of the court with my condemnation
ringing in my ears. The rumbling wheels of the
prison-van repeated it all the way from Paris to
Bicêtre that evening, and all the next day, and
the next, and the next, along the weary road
from Bicêtre to Toulon. When I look back
upon that time, I think I must have been stupified
by the unexpected severity of my sentence;
for I remember nothing of the journey, nor of
the places where we stopped—nothing but the
eternal repetition of "travaux forcés—travaux
forcés—travaux forcés à perpétuité," over and
over, and over again. Late in the afternoon of
the third day, the van stopped, the door was
thrown open, and I was conducted across a
stone yard, through a stone corridor, into a huge
stone hall, dimly lighted from above. Here I was
interrogated by a military superintendent, and
entered by name in a ponderous ledger bound
and clasped with iron, like a book in fetters.

"Number Two Hundred and Seven," said the
superintendent. "Green."

They took me into an adjoining room, searched,
stripped, and plunged me into a cold bath.
When I came out of the bath, I put on the
livery of the galleys—a coarse canvas shirt,
trousers of tawny serge, a red serge blouse, and
heavy shoes clamped with iron. Last of all, a
green woollen cap. On each leg of the trousers,
and on the breast and back of the blouse, were
printed the fatal letters "T. F." On a brass
label in the front of the cap, were engraved the
figures "207." From that moment I lost my
individuality. I was no longer François Thierry.
I was Number Two Hundred and Seven. The
superintendent stood by and looked on.

"Come, be quick," said he, twirling his long
moustache between his thumb and forefinger.
"It grows late, and you must be married before
supper."

"Married!" I repeated.

The superintendent laughed, and lighted a
cigar, and his laugh was echoed by the guards
and jailers.

Down another stone corridor, across another
yard, into another gloomy hall, the very counterpart
of the last, but filled with squalid figures,
noisy with the clank of fetters, and pierced at
each end with a circular opening, through which
a cannon's mouth showed grimly.

"Bring Number Two Hundred and Six," said
the superintendent, "and call the priest."

Number Two Hundred and Six came from a
farther corner of the hall, dragging a heavy
chain, and along with him a blacksmith, bare-
armed and leather-aproned.

"Lie down," said the blacksmith, with an
insulting spurn of the foot.

I lay down. A heavy iron ring attached to a
chain of eighteen links was then fitted to my
ankle, and riveted with a single stroke of the
hammer. A second ring next received the
disengaged ends of my companion's chain and mine,
and was secured in the same manner. The echo
of each blow resounded through the vaulted roof
like a hollow laugh.

"Good," said the superintendent, drawing a
small red book from his pocket. "Number
Two Hundred and Seven, attend to the prison
code. If you attempt to escape without
succeeding, you will be bastinadoed. If you
succeed in getting beyond the port, and are then
taken, you will receive three years of double-
chaining. As soon as you are missed, three cannon
shots will be fired, and alarm flags will be
hoisted on every bastion. Signals will be
telegraphed to the maritime guards, and to the
police of the ten neighbouring districts. A price
will be set upon your head. Placards will be
posted upon the gates of Toulon, and sent to
every town throughout the empire. It will be
lawful to fire upon you, if you cannot be
captured alive."