"Our fleet is still shut up in Brest by yours; so a large privateer of Bristol made a dash into the harbour of Cherbourg last week, to pick up anything milord Howe had left behind him. Among other things they unluckily picked up me, when on my way to Erville to keep an appointment with a little _paysanne_, who, like the rest, preferred a Parisian hussar to a Breton woodcutter. The privateer put to sea; I was refused my parole of honour, and placed on board this floating pandemonium three days before she was stranded in Rye Harbour, because in resenting some insolence of the privateer captain, I knocked him down and jumped overboard. He jumped after me, and we fought in the water till a boat's-crew picked us up. _Pardieu_ that is all, _mon camerade_." I begged the officer in command of the _Alceste_ to accept the parole of the chevalier, to which he at once agreed, and removed him to one of the after cabins, where he was supplied with clothes to replace his hussar uniform, which was now in rags, the ruffians of the prison-ship having torn every shred of lace from it, to exchange for grog with bumboat women who paddled about the frigate. We had a bottle of wine together, and under its influence the Frenchman's natural gaiety soon resumed its wonted sway, his annoyance and anger disappeared, and as we conversed his voice brought back, as in a mental panorama, the old chateau on the road to Rennes, with its reedy lake and flower-enamelled lawn--the woods, the hills, and rockbound shores of Brittany, with softer thoughts of a time that would never come again--thoughts, however, that he was singularly fated to dispel. "The story of your encounter with Hautois, and your casting him into the Black Torrent, where doubtless he has thrown many an unfortunate devil, will form one of the best legends in Brittany," said he, laughing. "The old Countess Ninon?" "Is well--though less blooming than her namesake, De l'Enclos." "And Urbain--and old Bertrand?" "All well, when I saw them last, about ten days ago. _Peste!_ what a number of things have happened to me since then." "And pretty Angelique?" "Is now the happy wife of Jacquot Triquot, coachman to M. le Curé of St. Solidore. The countess punished her thus for her remarkable trick of turning you into a soubrette, my friend, which might have been a very serious joke!" I smiled mournfully and muttered-- "Poor--poor Jacqueline!" "_Parbleu!_ how is it that you do not ask for her?" "Ask for _her_?" I repeated, with sorrowful surprise; "ask for one who is dead and buried?" "Who _was_ half dead and half buried, you mean. She was only stunned by a blow, and half-smothered among leaves and grass. She is alive and well, _Dieu merci!_ and by this time will be in Paris with her cousin, Comte Bourgneuf." I remained for some moments in doubt of my senses on hearing this; but there was an imperturbable smile on Boisguiller's face, as he sat twirling each moustache alternately.