"'Tis just like her," said Henry de La Mothe. "They say, when her husband was killed, she never shed a tear. But mark me, Monsieur Mathieu, she shall not have the Count's letter. As Mademoiselle is not here, I'll take it back to him unopened; so have a care not to tell the old Marquise that I have been here. Before I go back, however, I'll away to Paris, to gather what news I can. That _aubergiste_ meant something--I know him well. 'Tis old Jacques Chatpilleur, the _vivandier_, who served with the army in Roussillon, when I was there with the Count." "Well, well, my good youth, go to Paris if you please," replied the old servant. "You'll gain no tidings more than I have given you.--Did not I make all sorts of inquiries myself? and they are not likely to deceive me, I wot. Young birds think they can fly before they can peck; but go, go,--you'll gain no more than what I have told you." Henry de La Mothe did not feel very well assured of the truth of this last position; and therefore, though his back ached with a four days' ride as fast as he could go, he set out again for Paris, where he arrived before night-fall; and entering the city by the Port St. Antoine, directed his course to the house of our doughty friend, Jacques Chatpilleur, where he was instantly acknowledged as an old acquaintance by the worthy _aubergiste_, and treated with suitable distinction. Although every moment was precious, the Page did not think fit to enter upon the business that brought him till the _auberge_ was clear of intruders; and this being the hour at which many an honest burgess of the good city solaced his inward man with _boudin blanc_ and Burgundy when the fatigues of the day began to cease, Henry de La Mothe thought he might as well follow the same agreeable calling, and while he was at Rome, do as Romans did. More than an hour passed before the Page had an opportunity of communicating fully with the good _aubergiste_; but when Jacques Chatpilleur heard that the lady he had delivered from the clutches of Letrames, was no less a person than Pauline, only daughter and heiress of the late celebrated Marquis de Beaumont, and that, notwithstanding his assistance, she had somehow been carried off on that identical night, his strange woodcock-shaped person became agitated with various extraordinary contortions, proceeding from an odd mixture of pleasure and grief, which at once took possession of him, and contended for the mastery.