“Then perhaps you are _ennuyée_,” said I, half pettishly, to provoke a disclaimer if possible. To this insidiously put quere I received, as I deserved, no answer, and again we sauntered on without speaking. “To whom does that chateau belong, my old friend?” said I addressing a man on the road-side. “A Monsieur le Marquis, sir,” replied he. “But what’s his name, though?” “Ah, that I can’t tell you,” replied the man again. There you may perceive how, even yet, in provincial France, the old respect for the aristocracy still survives; it is sufficient that the possessor of that fine place is “Monsieur le Marquis;” but any other knowledge of who he is, and what, is superfluous. “How far are we from the next village, do you know?” “About a league.” “Indeed. Why I thought ‘La Scarpe’ was quite near us.” “Ah, you are thinking of the Amiens road.” “Yes, of course; and is not this the Amiens road?” “Oh, no; the Amiens road lies beyond those low hills to the right. You passed the turn at the first ‘barriere’.” “Is it possible we could have come wrong?” “Oh, Mr. Lorrequer, don’t say so, I entreat of you.” “And what road is this, then, my friend?” “This is the road to Albert and Peronne.” “Unfortunately, I believe he is quite right. Is there any crossroad from the village before us now, to the Amiens road?” “Yes; you can reach it about three leagues hence.” “And we can get a carriage at the inn probably?” “Ah, that I am not sure of—. Perhaps at the Lion d’or you may.” “But why not go back to Abbeville?” “Oh, Mrs. Bingham must have left long since, and beside you forget the distance; we have been walking two hours.” “Now for the village,” said I, as I drew my friend’s arm closer within mine, and we set out in a fast walk. Isabella seemed terribly frightened at the whole affair; what her mamma might think, and what might be her fears at not finding us on the road, and a hundred other encouraging reflections of this nature she poured forth unceasingly. As for myself, I did not know well what to think of it; my old fondness for adventure being ever sufficiently strong in me to give a relish to any thing which bore the least resemblance to one. This I now concealed, and sympathised with my fair friend upon our mishap, and assuring her, at the same time, that there could be no doubt of our overtaking Mrs. Bingham before her arrival at Amiens. “Ah, there is the village in the valley; how beautifully situated.” “Oh, I can’t admire any thing now, Mr. Lorrequer, I am so frightened.” “But surely without cause,” said I, looking tenderly beneath her bonnet. “Is this,” she answered, “nothing,” and we walked on in silence again.