_July 17th._--Alas! how transient is all earthly happiness! To-morrow I quit Colombes and my delightful residence for ever; except, indeed, I pay it a casual visit, and that I shall hardly have heart to do. A few short days passed in this elysium have endeared it to me beyond expression, and, spite of certain little differences, M. Ferdinand and I have become quite friends. The old man’s manner is always so kind that I really believe he likes me; but then these French are consummate _blagueurs_. Our principal quarrel has been invariably about wine. At first he always produced such as would have done honour to any table, but by degrees he began from time to time to introduce a bottle of inferior quality. It was, however, too late; our palates were formed, and could bear nothing but the best, which we insisted on having, spite of his equivocations and harangues to prove to us that we were no judges of wine. Some droll scenes have arisen out of this; for we discovered that M. Ferdinand has the greatest horror of our invading his territory, and availed ourselves of the discovery whenever he tried to play us a trick. Nothing could be more comical than the expression which his countenance assumed on these occasions. “Ferdinand!” “Monsieur!” “Ce vin ci n’est pas bon!” “Ce vin n’est pas bon, monsieur?” arching his grey eyebrows. “Non, il est exécrable, vilain.” “Mais, monsieur,” with emphasis, “c’est du meilleur vin de la cave, je vous assure;” and then, with an “Excusez, monsieur!” he takes the bottle, pours a little wine into the palm of his hand, tastes it, makes a grimace indicative of pleasure, rubs down his stomach with feigned ecstasy, and exclaims, “Dieu merci, comme il est excellent!” “Eh bien, M. Ferdinand, vous ne savez plus plaire à notre gout; allez vous en, cherchez une chandelle et la clef de la cave, j’y descendrai choisir moi-même,” &c. &c. This always produced the desired effect--the comic expression of his countenance would give place to one of extreme anxiety. “Tenez, monsieur!--tenez! cela ne sera pas bon; la cave est si obscure, si humide. Ah, je ne le permettrai jamais. Si monsieur le trouve bon, je descendrai chercher d’autre vin, et peut-être je serais plus heureux.” Without waiting for a reply, he would brush off with the activity of a man twenty years younger. In due time, allowing for the supposed search, re-enter M. Ferdinand with a joyous countenance and bottle in hand, from which, the long cork duly extracted, he would deliberately fill a _large_ glass, look exultingly around, and, making a most profound bow (without, however, spilling one drop), drink “au bonheur de Monsieur le Commandant et des braves Anglais,” then triumphantly plant the bottle on the table with renewed assurances of the excellence of its contents, which we invariably found to be perfectly true. On the whole, however, as I before said, we were excellent friends, and Monsieur le Commandant a special favourite