At Mr Thorpe’s condolence, however, backed by his gift of a six-sous piece, the Italian retreated thankfully. They watched him as he was joined by his singular company, slowly and with a crestfallen air disappearing round the by-way. All the tutor could find out was that they had been chased out from that end of the place just before, with sticks, stones, and pitchforks, by the very young people who had been dancing sociably enough along with the bear and monkey—because an air they commenced was _contre la liberté_. How any tune could be against liberty, Mr Thorpe could not conceive: nay, if they did not like dancing to it, they might have stood still; they might have requested it to be stopped; indeed, it was probable that some of these very people might have wished the liberty of dancing it! Still less could he perceive how _liberty_ could be connected with that particular tune—“_Richard o mon roi_”? And he looked interrogatively to Mrs Mason. Certainly not, the governess responded: Gretry’s new music! In fact, he rejoined, the musician could not, either: but that day mysteries seemed to grow, he added,—for, before himself emerging from the place, at sight of the church, he had very civilly inquired, from a group of inhabitants, what was the name of the village. What had been his astonishment to perceive, that passing from uncivil silence, from stares of wonder, and extraordinary, sudden indignation, they looked very much disposed to treat him as it now seemed they had before treated these inoffensive strangers. Until, adding insult, they had significantly touched their foreheads, looking to each other, or whispering, until one, perhaps still more ingenious in giving offence, had suddenly called out, “Bah! c’est un Anglais!” There had been then no farther notice of him—indeed absolute indifference; nor did he discover, till he encountered the injured foreigner, what the name of the place actually was. And was there, then, really any peculiar crime in asking the name of _Charlemont_—any strange privacy—any unutterable horror connected with _it_—that no one should put the mere question? But, at all events, was a spirit of inquiry to be thought madness! Nay more, was it lower than madness to be—an Englishman!