with a broad belt over his shoulder, very much like one of those in which the beadles of old French churches used to stick their useless swords. He held the lantern while the money was counted out, and then was kind enough, though somewhat slowly, to lead us up a very dark and narrow stair-case to the first floor of the house, where the hotel in reality began. I never discovered what was done with the ground floor; for there were no shops in it, and it seemed to be left entirely to take care of itself. The mistress of the house—she had a husband, but poor little thing, he never presumed to interfere in any thing—was an enormously tall, and tolerably portly woman, apparently of five or six and thirty years of age, very fresh, good-looking and good-humored. She was a Fleming by birth, and bore evident traces of her origin in her fair hair, blue eyes, and brilliant complexion. She was enchanted to see us, she assured us, would provide for our accommodation as no other people had ever been provided for before, ordered some supper for us immediately, and in the meanwhile, took us to see our rooms, which were a story higher. There was a great, large, gloomy chamber, tesselated with brick well waxed, a bed in an alcove, two small closets on each side of the alcove, and a fire-place big enough to burn a forest. This was for Father Bonneville. My own room was about the size of the alcove and its two closets, and close by the side of the good Father’s chamber. To my young eyes it looked more snug and comfortable than his. But we were each contented it would seem. The bags were brought up, the post-chaise put in the remise, and my little store of clothing being placed in my room, I washed away the dust of travel, brushed the young, unfrosted hair which then curled so thickly over my head, and feeling somewhat solitary in the great world around me, found my way to the chamber of my good preceptor, who was sitting with his feet, one upon each andiron, contemplating with deep interest, as it seemed to me, the blazing logs as they fizzed and crackled on the hearth. Poor man, his thoughts, I fancy, were very far away, and he took no notice of me for a minute or two, while I meditated on the intense smell of roasting coffee and veal ragout which seemed to form the atmosphere of the house. Father Bonneville had just wakened from his reverie, and was speaking a word or two as the commencement of a conversation, when a waiter came in to announce that our supper was ready, with as discreet and deferential an air as if we had been two aristocrats living under the ancien regime. “Go down with him, Louis,” said Father Bonneville, “and I will join you directly.”