And Tibbitts relapsed into moody silence, disgusted with life because the Swiss government would not permit him to marry enough women to insure him a comfortable living. At Geneva we took a courier. A courier is a man who professes to speak seven languages, but in reality speaks one well, generally the German, and two, English and French, very badly. He is invariably the champion liar of the universe. There isn't a lying club on the Pacific coast of which the humblest and most recent courier would not at once be unanimously elected perpetual president. He lies, not from necessity growing out of his situation, but because to him it is a luxury. He revels in it, and is never so happy in it as when he has accomplished a gorgeous lie--one of those picturesque lies that the listener is compelled to accept, though he knows it to be false. He approaches a lie with the feverish anxiety that always accompanies an expected pleasure; rapturizes over the performance, and is unhappy till he can bring forth another. He has been in all countries; he has been in the service of every notable on earth, from the Shah of Persia down; and he is with you at the absurd price of forty-five dollars a month only, because he has to wait a month for a Russian Prince, who would never take a step without him. You feel from the beginning that you are under obligations to this gorgeous being; you are ashamed of yourself when you hand him the miserable pittance he condescends to accept for his services; and you would no more think of asking him to account for any moneys put into his hands than you would of offering a tip to the Queen of England. The courier is a man who professes to know all the hotels, all the roads, all the manners and customs, everything of the country through which you pass; and he takes charge of a party for a stipulated price per month, pledging himself to use his wonderful gifts entirely for your benefit. At the beginning, while you are engaging him, he warns you that to travel through any country is to expose yourself to swindles, and extortions and impositions of all kinds, from an exorbitant hotel bill up the whole gamut to the swindle in works of art--the only protection against which is a good courier. "Am I dot man? I vill not say. But ask the Prince Petrowski, the Duke of Magenta, the Earl of Strathcommon. Dose are my references." [Sidenote: THE COURIER.] These personages being a long way off, you don't ask them at all; but you engage him and flatter yourself that from this time on your pocket is safe and your comfort is assured. The courier is your servant for one day, and your master all the rest of the time he is with you. The second day he comes to you with a smile. "I have you feexed goot. Dot rascal landlord knows me, and he vouldn't dare try a schwindle mit any barty oof mine." "What do you pay for the rooms?" "Ten francs--only ten francs!" "But we had better rooms day before yesterday for six!"