British Public is a kind and sympathising
one, and watchful over the happiness of its
soldiers; and I feel confident that, did they
but know our great want, books would freely
be subscribed for our use, and sent out as
they were to the Crimea.

The writer modestly desires us to withhold
his name.

THE FLEUR DE LYS.

I.

HE that is of the road will, assuredly, follow
the road when he can. The shoulders that
have once borne the knapsack, will not be
easy until its straps have been fitted on.
This unerring law, I may take it, set me
once more a-tramping it on those French
roads, within one year after that scene
at the little village inn, and that last winding
of poor Canon Dupin's clock.* Set me,
I say, again a-tramping it on the roads;
not without a faint hope that I might fall in
with something like adventure, or at least see
more of the ways of men and women than
could be gathered from the windows of a
conveyance.

It was just about the end of a fine autumn
evening, that I found myself mounting the
hill which leads to the pretty watering-place
of Petiteseaux. It may as well bear that
name as any other; and so Petiteseaux it
shall be. Charming, most inviting spot it
appeared to be; for that approach was directly
under a rich green wall, which stretched up
far above my head: being, indeed, the straight
side of a high mountain, handsomely
furnished with this rich green planting. Out of
which becoming background, could be seen
peeping out, far a-head, the white buildings
which made up the little cantonment known
as Petiteseaux. "It will take me," I said to
myself, "a good twenty minutes more before
I can unbuckle, and take my ease in my
caravanserai. By the way, what caravanserai?"
And with that I took out a pocket-
book in which my friend Wilbraham had
written down with his own hand the name of
what he said was the sweetest, freshest, and
cosiest inn the heart of travelling man could
require. Watched over by a most bewitching
landlady, who was herself a picture to look
at. The name of the inn was, the Fleur de
Lys, and that of its mistress, Madame de
Croquette, both set down carefully in the
pocket-book. "I was here," said my friend,
"but for two days; and heartily sorry was I
to quit. It is likely enough that I shall join
you there." On that I put up the pocket-
book, and pursued my road under shelter of
the green wall. There were little winding
walks up its sides, leading to a pavilion or
summer-house, perched high enough; and
which one, fresh and unwearied, might have
found entertainment in pursuing. "I will
sit in that pavilion," I said to myself, "some
of these fine summer evenings, when I shall
have grown to be of the place. 'Twill be
very cool and refreshing after the day's work,
whatever that shall be. Drinking the springs
of Petiteseaux, perhaps?"

* See page 229 of the present volume.

At last, here it was. Not more, I suppose,
than forty or fifty two-storied, white, shining
houses. Clearly a very grand, fashionable,
drinking town some day. When our grand-
children should be grown up, there will be
marble fountains, and steps, a gorgeous
redoute, conversations-house, and salons de jeu,
with light click click of roulette-wheels as
music. Healthier music, too, from the Grand
Orchestra, of thirty performers, under the
eminent Herr Spongel, playing morning,
noon, and night, in their elegant open-air
temple, while the noble visitors drink. All
which are to be clearly foreseen in the
future. This innocence of aspect, this pastoral
effect, will have passed off against that time.
There will be the hot glare of countless gas-
lights, lighting up white-moustachioed faces
of industry-chevaliers, and faded aristocrats.
Who knows but this low building, hidden
almost with green flowering plants—and which
I see is the Fleur de Lys inn—may hereafter
be swept clean away, or burst into a dazzling,
staring, sumptuous, and exorbitant Hotel of
the Four Seasons, or Imperial Crown, or,
perhaps, of England. Who knows?

No one seems to be abroad in the little
town. No one heeds me. No officious gush
of the porter or waiter interest. No
encumbering of a man with help, as rough Samuel
Johnson put it. I entered under the porch
and laid my wallet down unassisted. Then
sate myself down beside it.

Some one was coming down the stairs with
a very light step, and singing. A chamber
wench most likely! no.

I stood up at once, and recovered myself,
as a soldier on duty. She gave a little start,
and curtseyed. The most charming little
Frenchwoman in the world, that might have
been cut out and stolen from a picture; with
a little lace cap perched on the back of
her head; with a neat little jacket of linen,
and apron with frilled pockets,—Madame
Croquette, beyond a doubt. But that cold-
blooded Wilbraham to have been so slack in
his praise!

Said the little woman, with a certain
dignity of her own, "Monsieur is welcome to
the Fleur de Lys. He has, perhaps, travelled
far, and will desire to repose himself."

"He did desire to repose himself," I
answered; "but for that matter, he would ask
Madame's permission to stay where he was—
in her shady porch, that is—in proximity
to the sweetly-smelling honeysuckles which
coated Madame's house."

"Well, it was a pretty place," Madame
would admit, with a little sigh, "and curious
to say this was her favourite seat too." And
with a delicate little kerchief, which came