"Why do you kiss them if you say their feet are so large, Joubert?" I asked, recalling his strictures on German females. "Ma foi!" replied Joubert--"one does not kiss their feet." He leaned with me over the balcony watching the scene below. The hatred of Germans which filled the breast of Joubert was a hatred based on the firm foundation of Blücher. Joubert did not hate the English. This "cur of a Blücher," who turned up on Waterloo Day to reap the harvest of other men's work, gave him all the food for hatred he required. "Joubert," said I, "do you see that man with the big stomach and watchchain sitting there--the one with a cigar?" "Mais, oui!" replied Joubert. "I know him well." "What is he, Joubert?" "He? His name is Bambabouff; he lives just beyond there, in a street to the right as you go out, and he sells sausages. And see you, beside him--yes, he, that German rat--with the ring on his first finger. His name is Squintz, he sells Bambabouff the dogs and cats of which he makes his sausages. Ah, yes; if German sausages could bark and mew, you could not hear yourself speak in Frankfort. And he--look you over there!--sitting at the table behind Bambabouff, with the mug of beer to his lips, he is Monsieur Saurkraut." "And what does he do, Joubert?" Before Joubert could answer, a man entered the hall, a dark man, just off the road, to judge by his travelling costume, and with a face the picture of which is stamped on my mind, an impression never to be removed. "Ah, ha!" said Joubert. "Here comes the Marquis de Carabas. Hats off--hats off, gentlemen, to the Marquis de Carabas!" Now, Bambabouff did look exactly like a person who might have made a fortune out of sausages, for Joubert had the art of hitting a person off, caricaturing him in a few words. Squintz's personality was humorously in keeping with his supposed business in life. And the new-comer--well, "the Marquis de Carabas" was his portrait in four words. Tall, stately, a nobleman a league off; handsome enough, with a dark, saturnine face, and a piercing eye that seemed at times to contemplate things far beyond the world we live in. The face of a mystic. Weigand, washing his hands with invisible soap, accompanied this gentleman, half walking beside him, half leading the way. They had reached the centre of the hall when the stranger looked up and saw my small face and Joubert's cat-like physiognomy regarding him over the balustrade of the gallery. He started, stopped dead, and stared at me. Had he seen a ghost he could not have come to a sharper pause, or have expressed more astonishment without speech. Then, with a word to the landlord, who also looked up, he passed on, and we lost sight of him under the gallery. "Ma foi!" said Joubert. "The Marquis de Carabas seems to know us, then." "Joubert," said I, "that man knows me, and I'm-m-m----" "Afraid" was the word, but I did not say it, for I was a Mahon, with the family traditions to keep up.