A tall church-tower was soon seen rising before us, at a considerable distance, and Father Bonneville took the opportunity of a peasant woman, passing us on the road, to ascertain the name of the town to which the church belonged. This gave him the key to his topography, which he had lost during the night, and as the town was still full fifteen miles distant, he determined to stop at any village he found a few miles ere we reached it, in order to avoid the stricter examination which was likely to be enforced in a city. Upon calculating as nearly as our knowledge of the country enabled us to do, we found that we had made five-and-thirty miles during the night, and ten or twelve miles more would put what might be considered a sufficient distance for the time between ourselves and our enemies. We jogged on quietly then, encountering a good number of the peasantry who were returning from market or fair. For a part of the way we rode by the side of an old man who was journeying in the same direction with ourselves. He had a shrewd, thoughtful, but quiet eye, and a bland, easy smile, which perhaps might have made a man well versed in the world doubt his perfect sincerity, notwithstanding his tall, broad forehead, and a certain dignity of air that did not bespeak low cunning. He addressed good Father Bonneville at once as “Monsieur L’abbé,” but looked at him several times before he said more. At first my old companion did not seem to notice the epithet he bestowed upon him, but after a few more words had passed, he inquired somewhat abruptly, “What made you call me ‘Abbé,’ citizen?” “Your dress,” replied the countryman, “your manner, and your look. The aristocrat is proud, because he has always commanded, and thinks he has a right to command. The peasant is vain, because God has implanted in every French breast the notion that each man is equal to his neighbor, whether he be a fool or a wise man, a scholar or a dunce, a brave man or a poltroon, a good man or a knave. But the teacher of religion has a different look. He has been accustomed to guide and to exhort, and he knows that it is not only his right but his duty so to do. There is, therefore, in him a look of confidence and authority, very different from the haughtiness of the one or the vanity of the other I have mentioned.” “You must have thought and studied more than might have been expected,” said Father Bonneville, examining him closely. “There is no reason why any man should not study, and still less why he should not think,” replied the other. “I have done both, I acknowledge. There are more sins committed in France every day than that.” “And pray where do you live?” asked Father Bonneville. “Come and see,” replied the stranger. “Your horses seem tired, and I have still some nine miles to go, but we can ride slowly, and at this next turn we shall quit the high road, which will be a convenience.”