by Montçeaux eyes—fresh from Paris—
censors, floating clouds, gold, silver, glitter,
torches, and sweet fragrance,—that was the
fonction. Alack, for the music, though
chaunted, indeed, with a will, but dissonant,
and of the nose nasal. Nor can I restrain
a gentle remonstrance against the leathern
spiral instrument—that cruel disenchanter
—worked with remorseless vigour by the
Tubal Cain of the place. At the end of the
fonction—when the patroness is happily borne
back to her resting-place—comes a moment
of intolerable suspense. Has M. le
grand-vicaire come? Will he come? In a moment
more there is sensation in the church,
for there issue forth boys in white, the men
in white, the lay figures even; and, lastly,
walking modestly with M. le curé, M. le
grand-vicaire himself. He has come, then,
the long desiderated! A rather florid, portly
man, M. le grand-vicaire, but true as steel
and has come twenty miles that morning for
the partoness and her flock. He will dine
with M. le curé in state, and meet the maire
and other great syndics. A very excellent
sermon from M. le grand-vicaire, full of
sound truths, with a little varnish of a Paris
accent over all. For, he is not provincial,
and hath eminent prospects of being a bishop,
and those not so remote either. A great day
altogether—a very high festival!

Shortly after noontide, a sort of calêche sent
over from Dezières, departed by the northern
side of the town. There were, inside of that
calêche, Madame Lemoine, Mademoiselle
Fanchonette, and myself. After all, madame
had decided, almost at the last minute, to go
forward to Dezières and wait there the
progress of events.

In about an hour's time then, we were
struggling slowly up the paved causeway
that leads into that town: a much greater
and more imposing place than Montçeaux.

There is a barrière and there are officials
there, and octroi; at which spot we turned
sharply to the right, making for a quiet and
retired house of rest, known as the Son of
France Inn. At the Son of France were set
down madame and her attendant, whilst I
went off on foot to the Three Gold Crowns,
on certain business of my own.

At the door of that house of entertainment
I made enquiries in an easy unconcerned
manner: firstly, as to the hour they were
accustomed to lay out their table-d'hôte, and also as
to whether I could be accommodated with an
apartment for that night. It was explained to
me that, on the score of dinner, I was unhappily
too late for the first table-d'hôte, which
was laid always at one, precisely. But that, by
infinite good luck, there would be another
laid at five o'clock, to suit the convenience of
strangers arrived for the festival. As to the
apartment I might have my choice; for
Garçon candidly acknowledges there are not
many stopping in the house. "Bad times
these for business," I say, laughingly.
"Confess, in all honour, have you half-a-dozen
people in your house?" Indeed he can
assure monsieur that there are at least that
number—or very nearly so. No, I say,
pointing significantly to the keys hung close
by—about three thick—who have you now?
Why, there was M. Petit the avocat, and M. le
sous-lieutenant, and now, let him see—oh,
yes! There was M. Falcon,—not exactly
stopping in the house; and there was M.
Rabbe, professor of languages and belles
lettres, and—Well, well, I say, so that
any of them dined, I was content. O, yes,
they would dine: monsieur might depend on
that. M. Rabbe always dined. Good. Then
I would be there at five.

I am interested in M. Rabbe, professor
of languages and belles lettres. I am
desirous of meeting M. Rabbe at dinner, and
making his acquaintance. I walk up the
street carelessly, thinking what manner of
man he may turn out to be, when I am seized
unaccountably with misgivings on the score
of my passport. My passport, of all things in
the world! Was it perfectly en rêgle as
their phrase was? Had it its full complement
of visas, and sand, and stamps? Would
it do for such remote quarters as Dezières?
Who was to let me know concerning these
things? I stop a passer-by, and inquire with
civility for the Bureau of Passports. The
passer-by is puzzled—not often coming in
contact with such notions—he supposes I
may hear of it at the Police. Yes; and
the Police? Ah! that was in Rue Pot
d'Etain—Tin Pot Street that is—straight
as I can go. Thanks. One thousand
thanks!

I proceed, straight as I can go, into Tin Pot
Street, and discover the Police at once from
sign of a gens-d'arme hung out, as it were,
at the door. Two other gens-d'armes are seated
on a little bench under the window, enjoying
the evening. I go up to the Sign, and
ask if I may be allowed a few minutes'
conversation with M. le chef. He looks hard at
me, moving his hand over his chin with a
rasping sound. Then, with a slow glance, he
takes me in from head to foot, and under
pretext of picking up a straw, contrives a
private view at my back. The brethren on
bench have by this time drawn near,
look me all over, and make rasping sounds
on their chins. I repeat my request of being
conducted to the presence of M. le chef.
Upon which the Sign—clearly not knowing
what to make of it—motions me to follow,
and leads me into a little back room. The
door is shut, and I am left alone with a
gentleman behind a table—bald, and rather
full in person—wearing a travelling cap tied
with a bow of ribbon in front, and an ancient
brown coat: altogether recalling forcibly
the men that used to book you in country
towns for the Royal Mail, during the fine
old coaching times.

I have some curious conversation with M.