I have said again and again that Nicola was lovely; but as the hours of our companionship were prolonged, and as we rode side by sicle between the long green hedgerows, the blooming orchards and graperies that bordered the banks of the Marne, and were ripening as the spring grew into summer, I began to discover new and dangerous graces and attractions--a lofty bearing, an enchanting purity, that would have graced even the vaunted Marie Louise of Lorraine, of whose far-famed beauty Nicola seemed very proud, and of whom she spoke a hundred times during our pleasant journey, often ridiculing, I remember, the manner and character of Wolfgang the young Count Pappenheim, to whom Charles IV. meant to marry her. Thus I began to forget the waiting-maid, in the little sister of the hospital, and daily took more care of my toilet, pointing up my moustache, curling my hair, &c., &c., striving to appear to the best advantage in her eyes, with what end I scarcely knew. We passed Meaux, of which the illustrious Bossuet was then bishop, and rode on, chatting and laughing, and quite forgetting to visit, in our characters of an abbé and soeur de la charité, the famous shrine of St. Fiacre. Ouf! the very name recals to me the image of Martin Omelette, and that devilish old historical chamber in the Bastille, from which he was so loth to release me! We lodged at a quiet little inn in the marche, where Nicola's costume, as a follower of Father Vincent of Paule, won her every respect and attention from our host, while my moustache and sword obtained the same from madame the buxom hostess, who soon 'detected the man-at-arms under my cassock,' as she told me with a smile. A ride of twenty-three miles next day brought us to Château Thierri, an old town of the eighth century, having a castle of Charles Martel on a hill overhanging it, and in this direction we progressed, as I chose a route pretty far to the left of the main road to Lorraine, being--for various reasons--desirous of avoiding the line of march formerly taken by our army. Here we put up at an auberge, opposite to the house in which the celebrated De la Fontaine was born. The people being old Huguenots, who remembered the wars of the League, were somewhat crusty, and loth to admit two passengers attired as Nicola and I were; but a twist of my moustache, and a display of that which is the most convincing argument in the modern world and in practical philosophy, money, silenced all their scruples, and we were immediately accommodated with apartments.