“Your wife, sir?” I saw he was a Frenchman, and I addressed him in French. “God be praised! You can speak my native tongue. Yes, sir, she is an Englishwoman and my wife. I am sure she will be no trouble to you.” “Very good. I don’t want to start later than I had arranged. Will she be ready at five o’clock?” “Certainly.” The next morning when I got into my carriage, I found her already there. I paid her some slight compliment, and sat down beside her, and we drove off. CHAPTER XII Miss Betty--The Comte de L’Etoile--Sir B * * * M * * *-- Reassured This was the fourth adventure I had had of this kind. There is nothing particularly out of the common in having a fellow-traveller in one’s carriage; this time, however, the affair had something decidedly romantic about it. I was forty-five, and my purse contained two hundred sequins. I still loved the fair sex, though my ardour had decreased, my experience had ripened, and my caution increased. I was more like a heavy father than a young lover, and I limited myself to pretensions of the most modest character. The young person beside me was pretty and gentle-looking, she was neatly though simply dressed in the English fashion, she was fair and small, and her budding breast could be seen outlined beneath the fine muslin of her dress. She had all the appearances of modesty and noble birth, and something of virginal innocence, which inspired one with attachment and respect at the same time. “I hope you can speak French madam?” I began. “Yes, and a little Italian too.” “I congratulate myself on having you for my travelling companion.” “I think you should congratulate me.” “I heard you came to Sienna on horseback.” “Yes, but I will never do such a foolish thing again.” “I think your husband would have been wise to sell his horse and buy a carriage.” “He hired it; it does not belong to him. From Rome we are going to drive to Naples.” “You like travelling?” “Very much, but with greater comfort.” With these words the English girl, whose white skin did not look as if it could contain a drop of blood, blushed most violently. I guessed something of her secret, and begged pardon; and for more than an hour I remain silent, pretending to gaze at the scenery, but in reality thinking of her, for she began to inspire me with a lively interest. Though the position of my young companion was more than equivocal, I determined to see my way clearly before I took any decisive step; and I waited patiently till we got to Bon Couvent, where we expected to dine and meet the husband. We got there at ten o’clock. In Italy the carriages never go faster than a walk; a man on foot can outstrip them, as they rarely exceed three miles an hour. The tedium of a journey under such circumstances is something dreadful, and in the hot months one has to stop five or six hours in the middle of the day to avoid falling ill.