Property (M. Loyal always speaks of it as
"la propriete ") we went three miles straight
on end, in search of the bridge of Austerlitz—
which we afterwards found to be immediately
outside the window. The Chateau of the Old
Guard, in another part of the grounds, and,
according to the plan, about two leagues from
the little dining room, we sought in vain for
a week, until, happening one evening to sit
upon a bench in the forest (forest in the plan),
a few yards from the house-door, we observed
at our feet, in the ignominious circumstances
of being upside down and greenly rotten, the
Old Guard himself: that is to say, the painted
effigy of a member of that distinguished corps,
seven feet high, and in the act of carrying
arms, who had had the misfortune to be blown
down in the previous winter. It will be perceived
that M. Loyal is a staunch admirer of the great
Napoleon. He is an old soldier himself-
captain of the National Guard, with a handsome
gold vase on his chimneypiece, presented
to him by his company and his respect for
the memory of the illustrious general is
enthusiastic. Medallions of him, portraits of him,
busts of him, pictures of him, are thickly
sprinkled all over the property. During the
first month of our occupation, it was our affliction
to be constantly knocking down Napoleon:
if we touched a shelf in a dark corner,
he toppled over with a crash; and every door
we opened, shook him to the soul. Yet M.
Loyal is not a man of mere castles in the air,
or, as he would say, in Spain. He has a
specially practical, contriving, clever, skilful
eye and hand. His houses are delightful. He
unites French elegance and English comfort,
in a happy manner quite his own. He has an
extraordinary genius for making tasteful little
bedrooms in angles of his roofs, which an
Englishman would as soon think of turning
to any account, as he would think of cultivating
the Desert. We have ourself  reposed
deliciously, in an elegant chamber of M. Loyal's
construction, with our head as nearly in the
kitchen chimney-pot as we can conceive it
likely for the head of any gentleman, not
by profession a Sweep, to be. And into
whatsoever strange nook M. Loyal's genius
penetrates, it, in that nook, infallibly constructs a
cupboard and a row of pegs. In either of our
houses, we could have put away the knapsacks
and hung up the hats, of the whole regiment
of Guides.

Aforetime, M. Loyal was a tradesman in
the town. You can transact business with
no present tradesman in the town, and give
your card "chez M. Loyal," but a brighter
face shines upon you directly. We doubt if
there is, ever was, or ever will be, a man so
universally pleasant in the minds of people as
M. Loyal is in the minds of the citizens of
our French watering-place. They rub their
hands and laugh when they speak of him.
Ah, but he is such a good child, such a brave
boy, such a generous spirit, that Monsieur
Loyal! It is the honest truth. M. Loyal's
nature is the nature of a gentleman. He
cultivates his ground with his own hands
(assisted by one little labourer, who falls into
a fit now and then); and he digs and delves
from morn to eve in prodigious perspirations
—"works always," as he says—but, cover
him with dust, mud, weeds, water, any stains
you will, you never can cover the gentleman
in M. Loyal. A portly, upright, broad-
shouldered, brown-faced man, whose soldierly
bearing gives him the appearance of being
taller than he is, look into the bright eye of
M. Loyal, standing before you in his working
blouse and cap, not particularly well shaved,
and, it may be, very earthy, and you shall
discern in M. Loyal a gentleman whose true
politeness is in grain, and confirmation, of
whose word by his bond you would blush to
think of. Not without reason is M. Loyal
when he tells that story, in his own vivacious
way, of his travelling to Fulham, near London,
to buy all these hundreds and hundreds
of trees you now see upon the property, then a
bare, bleak hill; and of his sojourning in
Fulham three months; and of his jovial evenings
with the market-gardeners; and of the
crowning banquet before his departure, when
the market-gardeners rose as one man,
clinked their glasses all together (as the custom
at Fulham is), and cried, "Vive Loyal!"

M. Loyal has an agreeable wife, but no
family; and he loves to drill the children of
his tenants, or run races with them, or do
anything with them, or for them, that is
good-natured. He is of a highly convivial
temperament, and his hospitality is unbounded.
Billet a soldier on him, and he is
delighted. Five-and-thirty soldiers had M.
Loval billeted on him this present summer,
and they all got fat and red-faced in two
days. It became a legend among the troops
that whosoever got billeted on M. Loyal, rolled
in clover; and so it fell out that the fortunate
man who drew the billet "M. Loyal Devasseur"
always leaped into the air, though in
heavy marching order. M. Loyal cannot
bear to admit anything that might seem by
any implication to disparage the military
profession. We hinted to him once, that we
were conscious of a remote doubt arising in our
mind, whether a sou a day for pocket money,
tobacco, stockings, drink, washing, and social
pleasures in general, left a very large margin,
for a soldier's enjoyment. Pardon! said
Monsieur Loyal, rather wincing. It was not a for-
tune, but—a la bonne heure—it was better
than it used to be! What, we asked him
on another occasion, were all those neighbouring
peasants, each living with his family in
one room, and each having a soldier (perhaps
two) billeted on him every other night, required
to provide for those soldiers?
"Faith!" said M. Loyal, reluctantly; "a bed,
monsieur, and fire to cook with, and a candle.
And they share their supper with those soldiers.
It is not possible that they could eat alone."
"And what allowance do they get for this?"