fastened up in one of those courier bags
travellers carry. It was gone. It was not
in the outside pocket under the flap, nor in
the inside pocket; nor in great-coat, nor in
any place of security that I possessed. I was
aghast. On that leathern case, hung all the
elements of the vista I had contemplated,—
heavy diligence, Ship hotel, fast Lightning
coach, and Little Constancy herself. With
trembling lingers I rushed to my keys, and
delved down distractedly in the undermost
layers of my valise, turning all
out in a great heap upon the floor. It was
of no avail; the leathern pocket-book was
gone utterly: stolen, most likely, by those
stupid, staring boors, that crowded round
when I was helped in, faint, and nearly
unconscious. To this opinion the good curé
would by no means incline; holding that,
though stupid, heavy natures, the men of
those parts were true and honest, full of a
pastoral simplicity; that you might leave
a purse upon the highway, and not have it
taken up; that, in short, it was far more
likely I had dropped it on the mountains.
The cruel mischance, to whatever cause
owing, had dashed down all my hopes and
pleasant dreaming, levelling them pitilessly
like so many card-houses. I was to be bound
to this wretched place for another week at
least, having to wait advices from Paris, with
a fresh supply of money.

I suppose that, at a rough, estimate, that
posting-village might include some ten or
twelve cottages, disposed impartially, so as
to form a street. The inn, which was at the
sign of the Golden Monkey, was the post-
house—or, perhaps the post-house was the inn.
For the post element had entered into being
long before the entertaining business. Beyond
the little street, the village dispersed itself,
and broke up into scattered farm-houses,
speckling over the valley at long intervals. But
everything had a bleared and stripped aspect ;
for, at the back, rose the mountains of a
blue shivering tint, down which swept
eternally cutting blasts, the line of whose
action lay through our street longitudinally,
so that all objects in its walk were being
stripped and blighted ceaselessly. From
these causes the Golden Monkey himself—
once rampant over the door—had long since
become a mere tabula rasa, or plain void,
every inch of his gold and brilliance
being scraped from him by the rough
mountain powers. So, too, had been dealt
with the walls whereon the Golden Monkey
had leant him, exhibiting patches and bare
places, like the back of an outlawed dog. So,
too, the farm-house roofs had been dealt with,
which were always having new tiles set in
to replace old ones borne through the air to
adjoining parishes. So, too, the boors' faces
had been dealt with—men, women, and
children boors being peeled and charred by
this same mountain blast. It made me
collapse when I would first go forth into the
street, piercing me through, like a sharp
sword. Such of the trees, as had escaped
blowing to the ground long since, had the
same blasted look. Altogether, considering
that it had pretty much this aspect all
through, summer and winter—the blue
mountains keeping off the sun in summer,
and proving good nurseries for sharp gusts
and drenching rains in winter—it was about
as comfortless a spot as a miserable soul
could desire for itself. There was not in the
wide world a valley so bleak. I chafed sorely
during the days I waited for the letters;
keeping upon one eternal beat, between the
Golden Monkey and another building, the
post for letters, Gendarmerie and Douane,
all in one. For the high offices of police-
director, chief of the customs, and postmaster-
general of the district, are here all heaped
upon the shoulders of one little old man—
Barbou, by name—Monsieur le Chef,
Monsieur le Directeur de la Chambre de
Commerce, and the rest of it. Barbou was a little
old man, with twinkling carbuncle eyes,
nutcracker nose and chin; always to be seen in
a little black skull-cap, and ancient flowered
dressing-gown; which, as Barbou loved to
set forth wearily, had been in Egypt, Spain,
Russia, and other countries, in service of the
Grand Army, and of the Grand Man. He had
served—my faith, yes!—had served, and seen
some bloody fields, had Barbou; witness that
of Friedland, where his shako had been bored
through with a musket-ball. Grand cross,
Legion of Honour, from the hand of the
Grand Man himself! Did I note anything
remarkable about his face? A likeness, say,
to any personage, eh? Well, he was often
held to resemble, marvellously, one of the
Grand Man's family. Once—and here
Monsieur Barbou's voice would fall into a sort of
huskiness,—once had the Grand Man, when
coming down the ranks, in the redingote
and cocked-hat, stopped full before him,
frowning hard, and taking many pinches of
snuff. The Grand Homme did not wish any
one to be like him. People now alive had
often spoken of him in connection with his
Majesty the King of Westphalia. Eh? Well,
well! those days were all gone by for him.

This history was usually being rehearsed
when the form of looking through some half-
dozen or so old yellow letters—that have lain
there dozens of years—was being proceeded
with. I came upon the beat once, twice, and
three times in the day: indeed, as often as I
hear the sound of car or cart-wheel; each
time feeling certain that there could be no
letters; that if there were, it would be in
suspension of all physical laws; and yet I
went upon that beat perseveringly and
insanely, finding in it a sort of relief and
alleviation. There came the same little drama
every time—the black skull-cap and flowery
dressing-gown, as before; the episode from
the great wars, as before; likeness and cast
of features, as before; Grand Homme, as