sea-shore. That affair was speedily decided.
He fell, pierced through the sword-arm,
while I remain untouched. My next antagonist
was Corporal Bossonville, an old African.
This second combat was long and bloody:
severe wounds were given on both sides; at
last I was the victor. Heedless of my
injuries I then engaged a third— this was
Crugy, a voltigeur, like myself. Our weapons
were both broken: we each lay for dead on
the sands, falling at the same moment. I
refrain from shocking madame with the
particulars. When I regained my senses, I found
myself lying on a bed in the military hospital,
where also were my three foes. Now,
however, we were all friends again, for blood
washes away enmity. At the end of three
months, not before, as I had the honour to
observe, I cast aside my crutches and took
my place on the right of my company. That
day was a holiday in the regiment."

"And Mam'sell' Georgette?" I asked.
"I suppose she is now the present Madame
Jerome!"

"Ah, ah! La Maligne, keep up there!"
shouted Monsieur Jerome, giving the mare
a sharp cut over the withers,

I repeated my question.

"No," replied Monsieur Jerome, looking a
little confused. " Mam'sell' Georgette died
of a fever, brought on by anxiety on my
account, while I was in the hospital. That
catastrophe decided me to renounce a military
life: moreover, my period of service had
expired. Hi! hi! La Maligne, forward!"

He jumped down at these words and walked
in the road beside his mare, leaving us to
discuss the narrative which we had just heard.

"What dreadful people these Frenchmen
are for fighting!" said my wife.

"Very dreadful!" I answered.

She noticed the tone in which I spoke.

"You don't believe him ?" she asked.

"Not a bit," I replied. "From what his
wife said this morning, their daughter must
be thirteen at least, and this wonderful
cutting and slashing occurred, according to
his account, only six years ago, before he was
married. It is not, however, a bad story to
tell: it helps one over the ground."

"Not very much, I imagine; for we seem
to me to get on very slowly. How shocking
it is that people should be such story-tellers!
I have taken quite a dislike to that man. I
hope to gracious he won't upset us."

"That is my least fear, for as you say, we
don't travel over fast. Halloa! Jerome!
Get up again, and drive on. We shall be all
night on the road!"

'' Ah, pardon," was his reply. " We are
now within sight of Nouvion. We have
already accomplished thirteen kilos, and I
do not yet intend to bait my horse. At
Bernay, seven kilos further, she must
have something, and then there remain only
twenty-three kilos to Montreuil, where
monsieur intends, I suppose, to dine ?"

"And when do you think we shall reach
Montreuil ?"

"O, before six, without doubt, unless
anything happens."

"How much is a kilo?" asked my wife.
I told her about three-fifths of a mile. She
then began to count on her fingers, first
three, then five, but it was plain she could
make nothing of it, for she shut up her hand
in despair. " Whatever they are," she
exclaimed, " I am sure we shall never get
there!"

Monsieur Jerome did not understand her
words, but appeared to catch her meaning.

"Be tranquil, madame," he said, " we shall
arrive very soon."

We entered Nouvion, a hamlet of six or
seven houses,—one of them a cabaret, with
the withered branch of a fir-tree, rusty red,
over an inscription which told of the travellers'
repose. Monsieur Jerome looked wistfully at
the branch, but resisted the temptation;
that is to say, he drove past; but his resolution
lasted only ten seconds. A few yards
further, he pulled up, reminding himself
aloud that he had a message to deliver to the
proprietor of that cabaret. It must have
been almost as long as a president's message,
for it was a good quarter of an hour before
he came back. He then made a show of
great bustle, cracked his whip, shouted at
La Maligne, and expended much breath,
impregnated with brandy of not the very best
quality. As soon as he got on his seat, he
began to talk again, with the intention,
apparently, of relating some more adventures, but
he roared so loud (some Frenchmen do roar
tremendously) that my wife begged me to
desire him to be quiet, for his voice " went
through her head." Monsieur Jerome
interpreted this request as an interdiction on
speech only, and forthwith broke out into
song, indulging us with the somewhat
monotonous history of Cadet Rousselle and his
three ruined houses in which the swallows
built their nests. That song, with a few
intermissions, during which la Maligne was the
object of Monsieur Jerome's attention, lasted
until we got to Bernay. I looked at my watch
and found that it was nearly five o'clock.
Twelve miles in four hours, and only a quarter
of the distance done! Small chance, thought
I, of our getting to Boulogne to-night! And I
called myself a fool for supposing such a
thing possible. I, however, kept my own
counsel for the present, assisted my wife to
descend from the coucou, walked with her
into the stable-yard, and listened to a long
account of the performances of the numerous
pigeons which, at that time, used to bring the
Stock Exchange expresses from London, on
their way to Paris; then we strolled to a
slight eminence near the high road, in the
hope of getting a distant view of the field of
Crecy. Some twenty minutes or so were
spent in these occupations, and if we had
consumed twenty more, Monsieur Jerome would