We had to cycle down into Italy and William Penn could not be left to care for himself, nor could we board him out without risking the individuality of a cat who had never seen the world except from the top of a four-story house. Louise and M. Auguste, therefore, were retained to look after him, which, I should add, they did in a manner as satisfactory to William as to ourselves. Every week I received a report of his health and appetite from M. Auguste, in whom I discovered a new and delightful talent as correspondent. "_Depuis votre depart_," said the first, "_cette pauvre bete a miaule apres vous tous les jours, et il est constamment a la porte pour voir si vous ne venez pas. Il ne commence vraiment a en prendre son parti que depuis hier. Mais tous ces soucis de chat_ [for that charming phrase what would one not have forgiven M. Auguste?], _mais tous ces soucis de chat ne l'empechent pas de bien boire son lait le matin et manger sa viande deux fois par jour._" Nor was it all colour of rose to be in charge of William. "_Figurez-vous_," the next report ran, "_que Mussy a devore et abime completement une paire de bas tout neufs que Louise s'est achetee hier. C'est un vrai petit diable, mais il est si gentil qu'on ne peut vraiment pas le gronder pour cela._" It was consoling to hear eventually that William had returned to normal pursuits. "_Mussy est bien sage, il a attrape une souris hier dans la cuisine--je crois bien que Madame ne trouvera jamais un aussi gentil Mussy._" And so the journal of William's movements was continued throughout our absence. When, leaving J. in Italy, I returned to London,--met at midnight at the station by M. Auguste with flattering enthusiasm,--Mussy's condition and behaviour corroborated the weekly bulletins. And not only this. Our chambers were as clean as the proverbial new pin: everything was in its place; not so much as a scrap of paper was missing. The only thing that had disappeared was the sprinkling of gray in Louise's hair, and for this M. Auguste volubly prepared me during our walk from the station; she had dyed it with almost unforeseen success, he told me, so triumphantly that I put down the bottle of dye to his extravagance. If I know M. Auguste was not a thief, I do not think he was a murderer. How could I see blood on the hands of the man who presided so joyously over my pots and pans? If he were a forger, my trust in him never led to abuse of my cheque book; if a deserter, how came he to be possessed of his _livret militaire_ duly signed, as my own eyes are the witness? how could he venture back to France, as I know he did for I received from him letters with the Paris postmark? An anarchist, J. was inclined to believe. But I could not imagine him dabbling in bombs and fuses. To be a horse-dealer, without horses or money, was much more in his line.