"'Ernest!' answered the young girl, darting out of the grotto. "I followed her, terrified at my own exploit. She was already clasped in the arms of her lover. "'In there,' cried the young officer to a party of soldiers who just then came up. 'He is in there. Bring him out, dead or alive.' "They rushed in, but the broken bass was all they found. The captain had escaped by the other door. "On our way to the house we saw ten or twelve dead bodies. One was lying on the steps leading to the door. "'Take away this carrion,' said Ernest. "Two soldiers turned the body over. It was the last of the Beaumanoirs. "We remained but a few minutes at the house, and then Zephyrine and myself got into a carriage and set off, escorted by M. Ernest and a dozen men. I did not forget to carry off my hundred crowns, my fowling-piece, and game-bag. As to my poor bass, the captain's head had completely spoiled it. "After an hour's drive, we came in sight of a large city with an enormous dome the middle of it. It was Rome. "'And did you see the Pope, M. Louet?' "'At that time he was at Fontainbleau, but I saw him afterwards, and his successor too; for M. Ernest got me an appointment as bass-player at the Teatro de la Valle, and I remained there till the year 1830. When I at last returned to Marseilles, they did not know me again, and for some time refused to give me back my place in the orchestra, under pretence that I was not myself.' "'And Mademoiselle Zephyrine?' "'I heard that she married M. Ernest, whose other name I never knew, and that he became a general, and she a very great lady." "'And Captain Tonino? Did you hear nothing more of him?' "'Three years afterwards he came to the theatre in disguise; was recognised, arrested, and hung.' "'And thus it was, sir,' concluded M. Louet, 'that a thrush led me into Italy, and caused me to pass twenty years at Rome.'" And so ends the thrush-hunt. One word at parting, to qualify any too sweeping commendation we may have bestowed on M. Dumas in the early part of this paper. While we fully exonerate his writings from the charge of grossness, and recognise the absence of those immoral and pernicious tendencies which disfigure the works of many gifted French writers of the day, we would yet gladly see him abstain from the somewhat too Decameronian incidents and narratives with which he occasionally varies his pages. That he is quite independent of such meretricious aids, is rendered evident by his entire avoidance of them in some of his books, which are not on that account a whit the less _piquant_. With this single reservation, we should hail with pleasure the appearance on our side the Channel of a few such sprightly and amusing writers as Alexander Dumas. * * * * * HIGH LIFE IN THE LAST CENTURY.[5] [5] _George Selwyn and his Contemporaries, with Memoirs and Notes_. By T.H. Jesse. 4 vols.