middle of the road. Here was a sort of
circus formed by that road, fringed round
with grass and hedges; and the circus was
almost filled with light waggons and
covered things, and a char-a-banc or two;
while the horses were straying about at
large. Plain out-speaking tokens of what
doings were about. But, through the high,
wooden paling, painted white, and the white-
railed gates, there was the Golden Rose Inn
itself to be seen, afar off as it were, with a
pretty plaisance, as old-fashioned men called
it, lying in front. There were vines loaded
heavily, and sweet-smelling flowers, and little
grass-plats and winding walks (not weedless,
however), and an old broken fountain or two,
now quite dry and thirsty-looking. Then,
for the house of the Golden Rose itself —seen
through the white rails of the great gates— it
was of the pleasantest cream-tint, overlaid
with abundance of green shuttering; high roof
and chimneys, as in the old-established
pattern. Surely road-side inn—Golden Rose or
other—never looked out so invitingly across
its plaisance. But, in truth, it needed no
great stretch of thought to divine that this
had been the château of Milord Marquis,
Seigneur in those parts: that is, long, long
ago, before Milord Marquis was sold up or
decapitated by the Septembrists, or turned
emigré dancing-master in London. Now, by
whatever shift it had come about, it was the
Golden Rose, and kept by Hippolite Bontiquet,
at my service.

That worthy had come forth, looking most
festive in his bright blue coat and shining
wig, and huge bunch of flowers at his buttonhole,
as soon as he heard the rattle at his
great white gate. Although corpulent,
Bontiquet came round the walk at a surprising
pace, his crimson glistening oilily.

"Come in, come in, Monsieur," he said,
throwing open wide both doors of his gate.
"You are welcome, indeed! Soyez le bien
venu of this happy night! You shall see a
wedding, sir; and shall have everything of
the best with us. Come in, sir. Everybody
shall be a guest to-night."

With that I followed the worthy man up
his own broad walk, he talking all the time.
It was Marie, his only daughter, who had
that day been united to a well-to-do master
wheelwright of the neighbourhood.

"They will be as happy a young pair as
are on the road from this to Paris," he said,
rubbing his hands merrily; "or, indeed, as
are in Paris itself. She is as good as pretty,
and Jacques is the steadiest young fellow in
all his parish."

'Twas a pleasant thing to watch the honest
glow of pride and happiness in his cheeks,--
pleasant to have lighted on such a scene of
almost pastoral happiness. The bare notion
put me into spirits.

"Believe me," I said, with much heartiness,
"they will be as happy as you can wish
them to be! As to the connubial bliss of
those in Paris, 'twould be only a poor
measure of comparison."

"Indeed I have heard so," says Monsieur
Bontiquet, innocently.

"Then it would be best to put it down OUT
of Paris."

"With all my heart," said Monsieur
Bontiquet.

This was spoken at the door, under the
porch of honeysuckles and twining plants.
Then came to us sounds of voices and merry
laughter from within.

"They are going to sit down to table," said
Monsieur Bontiquet.

I went in with him to the room. His
Seigneurie (decapitated or banished) must
have entertained company there on state-
days: and now it is full to the door of the
merriest laughing faces that marriage bell
ever brought together. There was good-
humour and mirth, and innocent joy, written
in a fine round hand on every face. They
were only waiting for Father Bontiquet.

"This way," said he, and led me straight
up to the top of the room, where was standing
a sweet village maid, all white and
garlands. Her bridegroom was beside her; a
smart young fellow, whose cheeks bore as
much polish as rude health and towelling
could give them.

"'Tis a stranger, Marie," said Bontiquet,
"and we must make him welcome!"

With that he took his seat at the head,
motioning me to one beside him. The newly
married pair sat together on the other
side of him. Monsieur le Curé, who had
officiated, sat next to me, and said grace.
Then there came a universal sitting down,
to such shrieking of chair-legs over the
oaken parquet floor, and such shuffling
of heavy shoes, as man could scarcely
conceive. Then succeeded a universal
bringing in and uncovering of dishes, the
very best fare Monsieur Bontiquet's larder
could compass. "Eat, drink, and be merry,"
said every glance of his honest face shooting
down the long table. And, truly, it had been
a banquet for such funny men as go forth
pencil furnished, beating up for queer twists
and shapes of human physiognomy. A fine
avenue it was—two rows of healthy human
trees. Fine handsome swains— generals of
division, counsellors of state, and maires
in posse—each beside his swainess. Corydon
busy with Phyllis, Damon delighting Chloë.
There were grim, grizzled fellows, with chins
like flax-carders, sitting together and talking
gravely: they were long past such nonsense.
And there was the comic man, or clown of
the party, with a face that would have stood
him fifty francs a-night, at the least, in the
provincial theatre, convulsing all who had
even bare view of him, which was about the
whole table. His name was Corbeau—and
Corbeau must have been the funniest fellow
breathing. He was Laughter-holding-both-
his-sides,— out of the poem and in the flesh!