“Yes, it is too late, my friends,” admitted he, composing himself. “As it is, however, by myself accompanying Monsieur the young Englishman, before nine, to the hotel of M. le Maire, I should equally gain the object, without having presumed to request an interview, which would have been denied me. I relieve Monsieur and his friends from a _contretemps_, while observing the law. I detain M. le Comte, at a critical moment, from a danger to his views—in the act of myself confirming them! It is not yet eight—we have still an hour, useless on foot, when lame—that is, if perhaps Monsieur would not object to one’s occupying a seat beside his coachman?” “It is reasonable!” exclaimed fifty voices. “M. Morin is right—yes! yes! Sa-cr-r-ré! do they object?” The young Frenchman looked quietly and calmly, though with an air of dignity, to Charles Willoughby, who for a moment scarcely comprehended his meaning, or the drift of the whole discussion. Brightening up next instant, however, his eye gave a quick response. “Ah, of course!” he said, springing to assist the teacher up; “certainly, Monsieur Morin—with all my heart; here, let me give you a hand!” The perplexed gendarmes looked to each other inactively, the innkeeper and his wife alone gloomed on their door-steps; while, as the injured schoolmaster was helped by the very offender himself to mount the dickey beside Jackson, the villagers grew absolutely ecstatic in their applause; the foremost agitators in the crowd were the first to begin dragging the obstacles aside. “Monsieur Jacksong, my friend,” called out young Willoughby, in his most scrupulous French, somewhat to the surprise, doubtless, of that grim worthy, while a sudden gleam of enjoyment twinkled once more in the youth’s eye, “you will favour me by using the utmost exertions to arrive in time for Monsieur Morin!” He deliberately opened the carriage-door again, took down the steps, and leisurely stepped in, two or three officious pairs of hands contending which should set all to rights behind him. He took off his cap as he stood, and bowed with profound gravity to the crowd. “That’s to say, Jackson,” added he in English, “all right—drive on like mad!” And as Jackson whipped his tedious beasts like a man devoid of all mercy, the creaking barouche rattled off; accompanied by half the crowd, by noisy curs, frightened poultry, and confused shadows from the trees and houses, till they jolted across the other bridge, and rolled out clear into the broad light of evening. All at once, after some silent meditation, Charles tapped the shoulder near him, and the Frenchman turned his face with a slight start. “I say, Mossure Moreng,” observed Charles, with more than his customary force of pronunciation, “I am sorry you got hurt, though.” “The apology of Monsieur is accepted,” was the cold answer, as the young man quietly turned away again towards the smoke of Paris before them.