"Ah! ha!" said the Marquis, "I have had other masters than Vol au Vent! Didst never hear of Vol au Vent's younger brother!" "_A La Carte!_" hissed the Marquis. "_Table D'Hote!_" was the determined reply, and again the swords crossed. [Sidenote: ON THE WAY TO PARIS.] It was over in a moment. The Marquis, springing lightly back, made a rapid advance. His rapier made a motion that was as quick as the stroke of a cobra. It was as fatal. A lightning-like _potage_, to which the Count opposed a _patisserie_ in vain, and he fell to the ground lifeless, the thirsty sand drinking up his blood. "_Haricot!_" said the Marquis, as he wiped his sword as cooly as though blood had never stained it, and walked deliberately away. "In the name of all that's good what _is_ all this about?" exclaimed the Professor. "Why, Tibbitts, all this French you have taken from this bill of fare here. _Pomme de Terre_, means simply potato, and _Poisson_ is fish, _Mouton_ is mutton, and _Fromage_ is cheese. You are not going to send this to your mother?" "Ain't I though! The good old girl don't read French, and this will do just as well as any I ever saw in anybody's novel. It shows that I have not neglected my opportunities. Send it? You bet!" And he did fold it, and put it into an envelope, and after several frantic endeavors he made the boy understand that he wanted a postage stamp, and in the box it went. And now that I come to think of it, I am not sure but that Tibbitts was right. If French phrases must be used in English writing, why not take them from a bill of fare? So far as the general public goes they would do just as well. I have no doubt but his French will pass muster, twelve miles back of Oshkosh. Leaving Rouen with its rich mediæval architecture, its quaint streets and lovely parks, we cross the Seine and are whirling along at a rapid rate towards Paris, the center of the gay world. As we approach the metropolis several beautiful cities are passed, the principal one being Poissy, a town of fifty thousand inhabitants, which was the birth place of St. Louis, who frequently styled himself "Louis de Poissy." At Asnieres, the Seine is crossed for the last time, and in a few minutes Cluney is reached, and away over to the right may be seen the tomb of Napoleon, its gilt dome sparkling in the sunlight. Here we pass the fortifications and in another brief interval are in the station at Rue St. Lazarre, and before us with all its beauty is Paris. In Paris the first American I met was Bloss, my circus friend. He had succeeded in getting his "wonder" in Germany, and in Switzerland he had purchased two bears, which he had with him. [Illustration: THE SHOWMAN IN PARIS.]