Here was a difficulty Lieutenant Thornton had not prepared for. Bill could write very well his own name or anything else; but how to get him to comprehend that he was to write Pierre Bompart before the sergeant was another thing. “Mon Dieu!” said our hero, “that part of his education was neglected, owing to his infirmity; but I will get him to put his mark, if that will do.” “Sacristie, it must,” said the sergeant, helping himself to another glass of Cognac, to brighten his ideas, which were getting rather confused. “A deaf and dumb man cannot well be expected to write. Pardon, monsieur; write his name yourself, and say, ‘For my servant, Pierre Bompart, who is deaf and dumb.’” This our hero did, and underneath the sergeant wrote “his mark,” and handed the pen to Bill. Lieutenant Thornton made a sign to the pretended Bompart to make a cross where he put his finger. Bill, with a very ludicrous expression of countenance, took the pen, and made a cross very nearly as long and as broad as the cross-tree of the Diamond; whilst the sergeant roared out— “Tonnerre de Dieu! comment cela, diable—that cross.” “It is very plain, but rather large,” returned our hero, vexed, though inclined to laugh, whilst the sergeant was busy reducing the dimensions of the formidable cross, which nearly erased all the previous writing. Bill looked on, and tapping the sergeant rather hard on the head with his knuckles, uttered such a hideous combination of guttural sounds, that the gendarme sprang to his feet, looking at him rather startled. “Poor fellow!” said Lieutenant Thornton, “he is very harmless, but not quite right here,” and he touched his head. “Ah, ça! do you say so?” said the Frenchman, packing up his books and looking at Bill, who was amusing himself poising a large knife that was lying on the table on the point of his finger. “Your man is un drole; but, parbleu! I would rather he attended on you than me, monsieur.” “I should say so, too, Sergeant Perrin; custom is everything; though he is subject to strange freaks, and does odd things, and is not very musical in the sounds he utters, yet his attachment makes up for every other defect.” Sergeant Perrin looked earnestly in the face of Lieutenant Thornton, with a somewhat bewildered expression, but taking up his hat he took his leave, passing out into the kitchen where he had left his comrade, and shortly after both mounted their horses and rode away, taking the direction of the château of Monsieur Gramont. On reaching that mansion, the sergeant was ushered into a chamber where Monsieur le Maire was sitting alone, doing what Frenchmen very seldom do, sipping his claret after dinner. “Well, sergeant, sit down and help yourself,” said Monsieur Gramont; but the worthy gendarme had helped himself so often that day that his faculties were slightly obscured. He sat down, however, and cast a glance at the claret, a drink he detested, and said—