"Needless to say that it would have been absurd to pay any attention to the lamentations of Joseph, or to make any representations to the police. We called to mind the saying, now almost historical—'The day which witnesses, in Egypt, the recovery of a stolen pocket-handkerchief will see also the settlement of the Eastern Question.' But I am conscious, my dear friend, that I am not carrying out your instructions, for, instead of holding forth about Africa, as you wished, I have simply talked of ourselves, and that you do not care about. You will lose nothing by it. I yield the pen to Périères—he is a literary man—he is! He excels in description. You shall be satisfied." "And high time, too," said M. de Pommerelle to himself. "Now I shall hear something about Egypt, and something worth hearing into the bargain. I know Périères—he is a remarkably descriptive writer—as good as Gautier." He hastened to take the second sheet, and this is what he found there— "Paris, departure, express, 7.15 p.m. Marseilles, arrival, 11.40 a.m. Grand Hôtel, Noailles—luggage. Walk round town. Tuesday left 9 a.m. steamer. Calm sea. Thursday, Naples, Pretty bay; Vesuvius not smoking. Friday, Port Said, very ugly. Left railway. Arrived—Cairo. Picturesque, but no Almehs. Arrange caravan. Kind regards." "The wretch!" exclaimed M. de Pommerelle, indignantly, "and he calls himself a writer! And this is what literature has come to now-a-days! If you don't pay these gentlemen for their copy, they use the telegraph wire for a pen. And I compared this fellow Périères with that painter of the East, the great Gautier! I shall never forgive myself for it." He got up in despair, and was pacing up and down his room, when, on passing the mantel-piece, where he had thrown down the letters, his eye suddenly caught sight of another page, written in a small and hurried hand. It was Dr. Delange's contribution. "At last!" exclaimed he, "I am sure to find some pithy remarks about Egypt here—those doctors are such intelligent observers!" He read as follows:—