“Thus, you see, my dear sir, how I have loved the emperor, for I have many a day stood under fire for him in this world, ‘et il faut que j’aille encore au feu pour lui apres ma mort.’.” He received in good part the consolations I offered him on this head, but I plainly saw they did not, could not relieve his mind from the horrible conviction he lay under, that his soul’s safety for ever had been bartered for his attachment to the emperor. This story had brought us to the end of the third bottle of Medoc; and, as I was neither the pope, nor had any very decided intentions of saying mass, he offered no obstacle to my retiring for the night, and betaking myself to my bed. CHAPTER XXVI. THE INN AT CHANTRAINE. [Illustration: Lorrequer as Postillion] When contrasted with the comforts of an English bed-room in a good hotel, how miserably short does the appearance of a French one fall in the estimation of the tired traveller. In exchange for the carpeted floor, the well-curtained windows, the richly tapestried bed, the well cushioned arm-chair, and the innumerable other luxuries which await him; he has nought but a narrow, uncurtained bed, a bare floor, occasionally a flagged one, three hard cane-bottomed chairs, and a looking-glass which may convey an idea of how you would look under the combined influence of the cholera, and a stroke of apoplexy, one half of your face being twice the length of the other, and the entire of it of a bluish-green tint—pretty enough in one of Turner’s landscapes, but not at all becoming when applied to the “human face divine.” Let no late arrival from the continent contradict me here by his late experiences, which a stray twenty pounds and the railroads—(confound them for the same)—have enabled him to acquire. I speak of matters before it occurred to all Charing-Cross and Cheapside to “take the water” between Dover and Calais, and inundate the world with the wit of the Cider Cellar, and the Hole in the Wall. No! In the days I write of, the travelled were of another genus, and you might dine at Very’s or have your loge at “Les Italiens,” without being dunned by your tailor at the one, or confronted with your washer-woman at the other. Perhaps I have written all this in the spite and malice of a man who feels that his louis-d’or only goes half as far now as heretofore; and attributes all his diminished enjoyments and restricted luxuries to the unceasing current of his countrymen, whom fate, and the law of imprisonment for debt, impel hither. Whether I am so far guilty or not, is not now the question; suffice it to say, that Harry Lorrequer, for reasons best known to himself, lives abroad, where he will be most happy to see any of his old and former friends who take his quarters en route; and in the words of a bellicose brother of the pen, but in a far different spirit, he would add, “that any person who feels himself here alluded to, may learn the author’s address at his publishers.” “Now let us go