“It’s rich, it’s royal, it’s rare!” he cried, “thus to double under the nose of the old cull of a bigwig, and to be sport in the next county while he’s hunting for a gate through the quickset. I pledge you my honour, monsieur, to see the two of you through with this; but, egad! you must draw upon my portymanteau at the next post if you are to win clear!” _Grâces au Ciel_ for the merry brave! It was like endeavouring to read inscriptions in the Catacombs to interpret his speech; but one phrase he had trippingly, and that in itself was a complete index to his character-- “_Je ne me mouche pas du pied_”--I know better than to blow my nose with my feet. And now, if for nothing else, I loved him for his boyish, shy, but most considerate attitude towards Carinne. * * * * * * * And thus was our escape accomplished. Winged with our passports, and cheered to the finish by the assurance of this gay and breezy islander, we came to the coast on a memorable afternoon, and bade adieu for ever to the family despotism of Fraternity. * * * * * * * “Tell me, _ma belle épousée_--for five days (the guests, the property, the _protégés_--what thou wilt--of this Sir Comely, this excellent Philippe le Bel) we have shut our eyes, here in this immeasurable London, to our necessitous condition and the prospect that faces us. Carinne, _mon enfant_, it is right now to discuss the means by which we are to live.” “I have thought of it, little Thibaut. I will paint portraits.” I started. “Oh!” I cried, “I am very hungry! Let us signalise this last consumption of the poor Crépin’s purse by a feast of elegance. Be assured his ghost will call the grace.” We entered an inn, opportunely near the spot whither we had wandered. It was in an important part of the town, close by the lion-surmounted palace of some monseigneur; and coaches and berlines discharged themselves in frequent succession in its yard. We walked into the _salle à manger_, sat down, and endeavoured to make our wishes known to the waiter. The room was fairly empty, but a party of half-a-dozen young “bloods”--_hommes de bonne compagnie_--sitting at a neighbouring table, seemed moved with a certain curiosity about us, and by-and-by one of these rose, crossed over, and, addressing me in very good French, asked if he could be of service in interpreting my desires--“For,” says he, with a smile, “I perceive that monsieur is from over the Channel.” “Alas, monsieur!” I answered. “We are, indeed, of that foundered vessel, _La Ville de Paris_, the worthless wreckage of which every tide washes up on your coasts.” Some compliments passed, and he withdrew to join his companions. A little whispering was exchanged amongst them, and then suddenly our dandy arose and approached us once more, with infinite complaisance. “Monsieur,” he said, “I cannot, I find, convince my friends of the extent to which your nation excels in the art of making salads. Would you do us the favour to mix one for us?” I hesitated.