‘I want to speak for one moment to your lordship.’ ‘Who are you?’ ‘I am Thomas Lindet, curé of S. Cross.’ ‘Oh! indeed. Friday week, at 2 P.M.,’ said the bishop, shutting the window and turning away. Lindet remained looking after him. The bishop stood a moment near the window, with his back towards the light, meditating; then he turned again, opened the casement, and called-- ‘Chopin, you may give him a glass of cider, and then send him off.’ ‘Yes, monseigneur.’ He slammed the window, and walked away. Lindet had much trouble in finding an inn which had a spare bed to let. The Grand Cerf was full and overflowing; the Cheval Blanc, nearly opposite, seemed to be bursting out at the windows, for they were full of heads protruded to a perilous distance, gazing up the Paris road; the Golden Ball at last offered an attic bed, which Lindet was glad to secure. This little inn stood in the Belfry Square, a market-place, named after an elegant tower containing a clock and curfew bell, in the purest Gothic of the fourteenth century, surmounted by a spire of delicate lead tracing, in the same style as that on the central tower of the Cathedral, but smaller considerably. The square was tolerably free from people, as monsieur was not expected to pass through it, and the comparative quiet was acceptable to the weary priest. After having taken some refreshment, and rested himself for an hour on his bed, his restless, excited spirit drove him forth into the street. The bells of the Cathedral and S. Taurin were clanging and jingling, flags fluttered from every tower and spire, musketry rattled, men shouted, a band played the Descent of Mars, as Lindet issued from a narrow street upon the square before the Cathedral and saw that it was crowded, that a current was flowing in the midst of that concourse, and that the current bore flags and banners, and followed the music. The priest, mounting upon a kerbstone, saw that the civic procession was conducting the Prince to the episcopal palace. He saw the town gilds pass, then the confraternities or clubs, in their short loose cassocks, knee-breeches, and caps, with sashes tied across their breasts, emblazoned with their insignia. Three principal confraternities appeared--that of Évreux, preceded by a banner figured with S. Sebastian, that of S. Michael, and that of S. Louis. A band of Swiss soldiers in red uniform followed, and in the midst of these guards rolled the gaily-painted carriage of Louis-Stanislas-Xavier, son of France. Lindet saw a portly young man, of good-humoured but stolid appearance, bowing acknowledgment of the acclamations which greeted him. That was the Prince. Lindet saw nothing of the reception at the gate, presided over by the ramping lion and the wounded saint; he could hear a pompous voice reading, and he knew that monseigneur was delivering an address from the Clergy to the Royal Duke, but what was said, how many titles were