“Oh, it is not an apology,” said Charles, leaning over, “but I own we are much obliged to you. Such a set of rascally canaille, to be sure! ’Twas ingenious enough, that story of yours—so far as I understood it! But where are we to take you to keep it up? Into town? Or perhaps you would prefer being dropped at the first comfortable inn!” “I do not comprehend you, Monsieur,” replied the teacher of Charlemont, in evident surprise; “it is to the hotel of M. le Count de Charlemont that we shall go—in Paris.” “And where is that?” asked the youth, drumming with his small cane on his toe. “In the Faubourg St Germain, Monsieur—near the Quai Voltaire,” said Morin. “Why, I should say it was two or three miles out of our way, then,” rejoined Charles, discontentedly. “Well—what after that? Do we finish there—eh?” “I am unaware of the result, naturally, Monsieur,” answered the schoolmaster. “In the case of Monsieur, it will probably be an inconsiderable fine, which the clerk of M. le Maire will no doubt regulate according to law. But for the coincidence, it would have been impossible to extricate Monsieur from that affair there—it was important that I should reach Paris: there is no favour to one or the other—only a compromise.” “By George!” uttered the boy, staring, “you do not mean to say that long rigmarole account of yours was _true_?” The Frenchman betrayed equal amazement. “Is it, then, possible, Monsieur,” said he, “that you doubt it—that you imagine these things not to exist precisely—not to bear themselves as I have stated!” Charles surveyed him coolly. “Think you, Monsieur,” continued the other, with some vehemence, “that one could at all events deceive one’s neighbours, who are aware of every circumstance—who will to-morrow demand of me the result! The police—who confide in my position, my character! No, Monsieur—it is _truth_ that has happened to involve, as to extricate you—truth, by which France is at this moment so animated—by which we here are at the instant surrounded, controlled!” Young Willoughby whistled slightly as he eyed him. “Oh?” was the careless rejoinder. “But for my part, I feel no inclination to trouble your worthy mayor. The whole thing is a humbug. What if I merely refuse to go, Mister Morran—indeed, if I have you set down beside the first fiacre, with your fare paid to the driver?” “You do not comprehend this France here, Monsieur,” said the village teacher, blandly, as he let a voluntary gaze of his colourless eye rest on Charles. “She burns to support the law—to assist it. At a moment they are summoned to its aid—they are roused to complete it the more perfectly—they exaggerate. Besides, even in your house, by to-morrow, you would be traced. The offence would have become enhanced. It is owing to the sublime passion for the philosophical—the consistent, Monsieur!”