then, speaking words of encouragement, and
glancing anxiously behind. So the yellow
fiacre went on until both came clattering up
to the railway door; the yellow fiacre leading
to the very last, with just one minute to spare.
So Cocher and his five hundred thousand
auxiliaries had deserved well of his fare, and
there was joyfully counted out to him the
promised bounty with handsome pour-boire
to boot. Rushing past to secure a railway
ticket, I just caught a glimpse of the dark
man—tall, well built, and in a richly braided
cloak—helping out a lady in a cloak and
hood.

During that precious three-quarters of a
minute everything must needs be done by
express. Express taking of ticket—to takers a
certain disadvantage in the matter of change;
express weighing of baggage per steel-yard;
also, it is to be feared, to owner's damnification;
there being a looseness in their fashion
of appraising weight. It is hard to bring
ourself to trust in that hasty click clack
(sounds resulting from loading of the steelyard),
or in the wild chaunt that follows.
"Dix-neuf! q'rante!" or in the delivery of
that blotted, sanded docket thrust through a
little pigeon hole. Express trundling, too, of
the weighed mails along the platform, with
express ringing of bells, and express jostling,
and express seeking of vacant places; much
calling, much whistling, much shutting of
doors; and I am thrust hastily into a roomy
carriage where there are only two persons
seated. The night express moves off with a
shriek.

It was just beginning to grow dusk; but I
could make out very plainly that one of the
persons opposite had on a richly-braided
cloak, and that his companion was a lady
closely wrapped in a velvet hood. She kept
far away in the corner, with the hood drawn
over so as to hide her face. A very handsome,
martial personage, the man, in the
braided cloak: some brave, doubtless going
southward with his wife. When we had
grown a little accustomed to each other's
faces, I should probably learn more of them.
With that I look out the shining sea-green
volume of the chemin-de-fer library (bought
by express, and charged double accordingly),
and began to read. In that pleasant romance
are soon forgotten all thoughts of the swarthy
personage opposite, and of his delicate
companion in the velvet hood.

From dusk to semi-darkness—from semi
to Cimmerian darkness—and then progress
in the little sea-green romance is stopped.
Edouard, by ingenious reasoning, has just
succeeded in convincing Marie that her lawful
husband, besides being tyrant, turnkey,
gaoler, and filling other such ungrateful
offices, was no other than a base impostor,
being forced upon her against her inclinations.
That he (Edouard) was in the eye of
justice, and bating a few ridiculous formalities,
the true and lawful spouse, the other a
low intruder. "Ces pauvres enfans,"
continued the little sea-green romance—But
here the darkness closed in effectually, and
some one came tramping along overhead,
dropping in lamp as he passed.

The yellow light streamed down full upon
one of the faces opposite. A perfect Italian
bandit's dark, handsome, and with piercing
black eyes that roved to and fro uneasily.
The velvet hood was whispering earnestly to
him, laying her hand upon the braided cloak,
conjuring him or remonstrating as it seemed.
But he kept turning his face away in the
same uneasy fashion, looking towards me
and the windows with much trouble of
soul. Finally, he pushed her hand away
roughly, and, covering up his face, groaned
aloud.

I was half inclined to continue Edouard's
and Marie's curious adventures; but here
was a real flesh and blood narrative that
promised to be infinitely more entertaining.
If possible, I would read it through to the
end.

"O malediction!" said the bandit quite
aloud. "Malediction! You have brought
me into all this! I shall never survive it!
I shall die! We were doing well as we
were! Oh!"

"Courage, my friend," the Velvet-Hood
said gently; "we are quite safe. No one
can harm you."

"Harm me! if those two tigers track me
out—Oh!"

"Hush, hush! my friend," the Velvet-Hood
whispered, looking over uneasily at me.

With that they lowered their voices, and I
could hear no more. I was driven in perforce
on Edouard and Marie; which poor young
people were now in fresh perplexities. I
had left them sitting for whole days by the
banks of a river, plaiting reciprocal garlands,
and trying their effect on each other's heads..
Now it had come to this, that the turnkey,
gaoler, or impostor-husband had been indiscreet
enough to offer gentle remonstrances
against this wholesale ignoring of himself.
A partial recognition, he thought, was not
unreasonable; he knew Monsieur Edouard's
superior claims, but—Edouard and Marie
will speak to him, will see the unhappy
wretch together. They do speak to him with
gentleness: for, though he has injured them
deeply, they are above resentment. They
show to him the impropriety of his conduct;
they show him how wrong he has been. He
is touched, he becomes conscious of his fault.
The strong man is dissolved in tears.

"Courage!" says Marie, holding out her
hand to him with a charming frankness.
"Courage! you are forgiven—you will not
offend again!"

"Never, never!" says the impostor-husband,
falling on his knees and kissing her
hand hysterically. Begs pardon, too, of
Edouard; who promises to think no more
about it. The wretched man is to be seen at