A trifling incident occasioned us much merriment the day we passed the frontier of the little Duchy and entered that of Tuscany. Underneath the carriage was slung a hamper, in which nestled our favourite Scotch terrier, “Boch-Dhu,” so named on account of her black muzzle, together with a small family with which she had lately increased our caravan. My brother had walked on for a stretch, as he often did, and left me in possession of some money to be delicately handed to the custom-house officer, bidding me at the same time to address the official with great civility. Accordingly, when we arrived at the Dogana, out came a little bustling man, whose chief characteristic was a pair of enormous moustaches. I acted up to my orders, and slid the _buona mano_ in his hand. He did not disdain the bribe, but thought to hedge with his conscience by asking in rather a peremptory tone of voice what that curious-looking basket contained, implying that it was his painful duty to be informed on so important a matter. I could not resist the temptation of playing him a little practical joke, so in a meek and obsequious manner I replied that I was not quite sure if the contents were contraband, and requested him to satisfy his scruples by lifting the lid. As he did so my expectations were realised, for the infuriated mother made a dart at his nose, and he incontinently dropped the lid with all haste. I must do the functionary the justice of saying that he was good-humoured enough to bear me no malice. He laughed outright, and the carriage drove on while he was shaking his fist at me in mock anger. On our arrival in Florence we took up our abode on what I have since called the wrong side of the Arno, although the autumn was not sufficiently advanced for us to find our quarters too cold. The house was situated near the south end of one of the bridges, and we had for fellow-lodgers a French family, consisting of a mother, two daughters and a son, who became ere long our cherished friends and companions. The youngest daughter was a most remarkable person, and one who was well known in Florence for many years. She had lived a life of romantic adventure, and it was my hope and intention, at one time, to have written a slight sketch of her life, as she described it to me. The mother, Madame de Fauveau, was a typical Frenchwoman of the _ancien régime_, whose family had suffered during the Reign of Terror. Her own mother had been a prisoner for some time in the “_Conciergerie_,” and I was much interested by an incident which my friend related to me of those terrible days. [Sidenote: “ROBESPIERRE EST MORT!”]