French--for this was the headquarters of Louis XVIII.’s phantom of an army. Upon ascertaining the situation of our billets, too, we found things still worse, these being generally in the Quartier de Bruge, a distance of nearly one and a half miles from the barrack, and some still farther off--one detachment being billeted at La Barqué, a cabaret on the canal harbour, and another at some village still farther off. A serious inconvenience this for horse-soldiers, whose duties required them to be so continually at the barrack, and most harassing when it is recollected that the distance from barrier to barrier is reckoned three miles--the whole distance over an execrable pavement. It was not without some trouble that I succeeded in finding my own billet in Bruge Straet, a respectable house, but nowise remarkable either for size or architecture. My host, a stout cheerful-looking old gentleman, whose bearing and dress bespoke the opulent citizen, met me in the gateway, and with great cordiality (recognising my billet) ushered me into a large room by the side of the brick-paved entry, announcing it as mine during my stay, at the same time offering me the use of his whole establishment, particularly of his cook. This last I accepted with pleasure, having arranged with my officers that our mess should be in my quarter, wherever that might be. Meantime, my baggage-cart having been drawn up the narrow yard and the horses dismissed, the great gates reclosed, and the bustle of arrival subsided, everything sank into silence--a silence as predominating in the street without as within the house.