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TO LONDON - Chapter VI

I Drive My Brother The Abbe From Paris--Madame du Rumain Recovers Her
Voice Through My Cabala--A Bad Joke--The Corticelli--I Take d'Aranda
to London My Arrival At Calais


As usual, Madame d'Urfe received me with open arms, but I was
surprised at hearing her tell Aranda to fetch the sealed letter she
had given him in the morning.  I opened it, found it was dated the
same day, and contained the following:

"My genius told me at day-break that Galtinardus was starting from
Fontainebleau, and that he will come and dine with me to-day."

She chanced to be right, but I have had many similar experiences in
the course of my life-experiences which would have turned any other
man's head.  I confess they have surprised me, but they have never
made me lose my reasoning powers.  Men make a guess which turns out
to be correct, and they immediately claim prophetic power; but they
forgot all about the many cases in which they have been mistaken. 
Six months ago I was silly enough to bet that a bitch would have a
litter of five bitch pups on a certain day, and I won.  Everyone
thought it a marvel except myself, for if I had chanced to lose I
should have been the first to laugh.

I naturally expressed my admiration for Madame d'Urfe's genius, and
shared her joy in finding herself so well during her pregnancy.  The
worthy lunatic had given orders that she was not at home to her usual
callers, in expectation of my arrival, and so we spent the rest of
the day together, consulting how we could make Aranda go to London of
his own free will; and as I did not in the least know how it was to
be done, the replies of the oracle were very obscure.  Madame d'Urfe
had such a strong dislike to bidding him go, that I could not presume
on her obedience to that extent, and I had to rack my brains to find
out some way of making the little man ask to be taken to London as a
favour.

I went to the Comedie Italienne, where I found Madame du Rumain, who
seemed glad to see me back in Paris again.

"I want to consult the oracle on a matter of the greatest
importance," said she, "and I hope you will come and see me
tomorrow."

I, of course, promised to do so.

I did not care for the performance, and should have left the theatre
if I had not wanted to see the ballet, though I could not guess the
peculiar interest it would have for me.  What was my surprise to see
the Corticelli amongst the dancers.  I thought I would like to speak
to her, not for any amorous reasons, but because I felt curious to
hear her adventures.  As I came out I met the worthy Baletti, who
told me he had left the stage and was living on an annuity.  I asked
him about the Corticelli, and he gave me her address, telling me that
she was in a poor way.

I went to sup with my brother and his wife, who were delighted to see
me, and told me that I had come just in time to use a little gentle
persuasion on our friend the abbe, of whom they had got tired.

"Where is he?"

"You will see him before long, for it is near supper-time; and as
eating and drinking are the chief concerns of his life, he will not
fail to put in an appearance."

"What has he done?"

"Everything that a good-for-nothing can do; but I hear him coming,
and I will tell you all about it in his presence."

The abbe was astonished to see me, and began a polite speech,
although I did not favour him with so much as a look.  Then he asked
me what I had against him.

"All that an honest man can have against a monster.  I have read the
letter you wrote to Possano, in which I am styled a cheat, a spy, a
coiner, and a poisoner.  What does the abbe think of that?"

He sat down to table without a word, and my brother began as follows:

"When this fine gentleman first came here, my wife and I gave him a

most cordial welcome.  I allowed him a nice room, and told him to
look upon my house as his own.  Possibly with the idea of interesting
us in his favour, he began by saying that you were the greatest
rascal in the world.  To prove it he told us how he had carried off a
girl from Venice with the idea of marrying her, and went to you at
Genoa as he was in great necessity.  He confesses that you rescued
him from his misery, but he says that you traitorously took
possession of the girl, associating her with two other mistresses you
had at that time.  In fine, he says that you lay with her before his
eyes, and that you drove him from Marseilles that you might be able
to enjoy her with greater freedom.

"He finished his story by saying that as he could not go back to
Venice, he needed our help till he could find some means of living on
his talents or through his profession as a priest.  I asked him what
his talents were, and he said he could teach Italian; but as he
speaks it vilely, and doesn't know a word of French, we laughed at
him.  We were therefore reduced to seeing what we could do for him in
his character of priest, and the very next day my wife spoke to M. de
Sauci, the ecclesiastical commissioner, begging him to give my
brother an introduction to the Archbishop of Paris, who might give
him something that might lead to his obtaining a good benefice.  He
would have to go to our parish church, and I spoke to the rector of
St. Sauveur, who promised to let him say mass, for which he would
receive the usual sum of twelve sols.  This was a very good
beginning, and might have led to something worth having; but when we
told the worthy abbe of our success, he got into a rage, saying that
he was not the man to say mass for twelve sols, nor to toady the
archbishop in the hope of being taken into his service.  No, he was
not going to be in anyone's service.  We concealed our indignation,
but for the three weeks he has been here he has turned everything
upside down.  My wife's maid left us yesterday, to our great
annoyance, because of him; and the cook says she will go if he
remains, as he is always bothering her in the kitchen.  We are
therefore resolved that he shall go, for his society is intolerable
to us.  I am delighted to have you here, as I think we ought to be
able to drive him away between us, and the sooner the better."

"Nothing easier," said I; "if he likes to stay in Paris, let him do
so.  You can send off his rags to some furnished apartments, and
serve him with a police order not to put foot in your house again. 
On the other hand if he wants to go away, let him say where, and I
will pay his journey-money this evening."

"Nothing could be more generous.  What do you say, abbe?"

"I say that this is the way in which he drove me from Marseilles. 
What intolerable violence!"

"Give God thanks, monster, that instead of thrashing you within an
inch of your life as you deserve, I am going to give you some money! 
You thought you would get me hanged at Lyons, did you?"

"Where is Marcoline ?"

"What is that to you?  Make haste and choose between Rome and Paris,
and remember that if you choose Paris you will have nothing to live
on."

"Then I will go to Rome."

"Good!  The journey only costs twenty louis, but I will give you
twenty-five."

"Hand them over."

"Patience.  Give me pens, ink and paper."

"What are you going to write?"

"Bills of exchange on Lyons, Turin, Genoa, Florence, and Rome.  Your
place will be paid as far as Lyons, and there you will be able to get
five louis, and the same sum in the other towns, but as long as you
stay in Paris not one single farthing will I give you.  I am staying
at the 'Hotel Montmorenci;' that's all you need know about me."

I then bade farewell to my brother and his wife, telling them that we
should meet again.  Checco, as we called my brother, told me he would
send on the abbe's trunk the day following, and I bade him do so by
all means.

The next day trunk and abbe came together.  I did not even look at
him, but after I had seen that a room had been assigned to him, I
called out to the landlord that I would be answerable for the abbe's
board and lodging for three days, and not a moment more.  The abbe
tried to speak to me, but I sternly declined to have anything to say
to him, strictly forbidding Clairmont to admit him to my apartments.

When I went to Madame du Rumain's, the porter said,--

"Sir, everybody is still asleep, but who are you?  I have
instructions."

"I am the Chevalier de Seingalt."

"Kindly come into my lodge, and amuse yourself with my niece.  I will
soon be with you."

I went in, and found a neatly-dressed and charming girl.

"Mademoiselle," said I, "your uncle has told me to come and amuse
myself with you."

"He is a rascal, for he consulted neither of us."

"Yes, but he knew well enough that there could be no doubt about my
opinion after I had seen you."

"You are very flattering, sir, but I know the value of compliments."

"Yes, I suppose that you often get them, and you well deserve them
all."

The conversation, as well as the pretty eyes of the niece, began to
interest me, but fortunately the uncle put an end to it by begging me
to follow him.  He took me to the maid's room, and I found her
putting on a petticoat, and grumbling the while.

"What is the matter, my pretty maid?  You don't seem to be in a good
humour."

"You would have done better to come at noon; it is not nine o'clock
yet, and madame did not come home till three o'clock this morning.  I
am just going to wake her, and I am sorry for her."

I was taken into the room directly, and though her eyes were half
closed she thanked me for awaking her, while I apologized for having
disturbed her sleep.

"Raton," said she, "give us the writing materials, and go away. 
Don't come till I call you, and if anyone asks for me, I am asleep."

"Very good, madam, and I will go to sleep also."

"My dear M. Casanova, how is it that the oracle has deceived us?  
M. du Rumain is still alive, and he ought to have died six months
ago.  It is true that he is not well, but we will not go into all
that again.  The really important question is this: You know that
music is my favourite pursuit, and that my voice is famous for its
strength and compass; well, I have comrletely lost it.  I have not
sung a note for three months.  The doctors have stuffed me with
remedies which have had no effect: It makes me very unhappy, for
singing was the one thing that made me cling to life.  I entreat you
to ask the oracle how I can recover my voice.  How delighted I should
be if I could sing by to-morrow.  I have a great many people coming
here, and I should enjoy the general astonishment.  If the oracle
wills it I am sure that it might be so, for I have a very strong
chest.  That is my question; it is a long one, but so much the
better; the answer will be long too, and I like long answers."

I was of the same opinion, for when the question was a long one, I
had time to think over the answer as I made the pyramid.  Madame
Rumain's complaint was evidently something trifling, but I was no
physician, and knew nothing about medicine.  Besides, for the honour
of the cabala, the oracle must have nothing to do with mere empiric
remedies.  I soon made up my mind that a little care in her way of
living would soon restore the throat to its normal condition, and any
doctor with brains in his head could have told her as much.  In the
position I was in, I had to make use of the language of a charlatan,
so I resolved on prescribing a ceremonial worship to the sun, at an
hour which would insure some regularity in her mode of life.

The oracle declared that she would recover her voice in twenty-one
days, reckoning from the new moon, if she worshipped the rising sun
every morning, in a room which had at least one window looking to the
east.

A second reply bade her sleep seven hours in succession before she
sacrificed to the sun, each hour symbolizing one of the seven
planets; and before she went to sleep she was to take a bath in
honour of the moon, placing her legs in lukewarm water up to the
knees.  I then pointed out the psalms which she was to recite to the
moon, and those which she was to say in the face of the rising sun,
at a closed window.

This last direction filled her with admiration, "for," said she, "the
oracle knew that I should catch cold if the window were open.  I will
do everything the oracle bids me," added the credulous lady, "but I
hope you will get me everything necessary for the ceremonies"

"I will not only take care that you have all the requisites, but as a
proof of my zeal for you, I will come and do the suffumigations
myself that you may learn how it is done."

She seemed deeply moved by this offer, but I expected as much.  I
knew how the most trifling services are assessed at the highest
rates; and herein lies the great secret of success in the world,
above all, where ladies of fashion are concerned.

As we had to begin the next day, being the new moon, I called on her
at nine o'clock.  As she had to sleep for seven successive hours
before performing the ceremonies to the rising sun, she would have to
go to bed before ten; and the observance of all these trifles was of
importance, as anyone can understand.

I was sure that if anything could restore this lady's voice a careful
regimen would do it.  I proved to be right, and at London I received
a grateful letter announcing the success of my method.

Madame du Rumain, whose daughter married the Prince de Polignac, was
a lover of pleasure, and haunted grand supper-parties.  She could not
expect to enjoy perfect health, and she had lost her voice by the way
in which she had abused it.  When she had recovered her voice, as she
thought, by the influence of the genii, she laughed at anyone who
told her that there was no such thing as magic.

I found a letter from Therese at Madame d'Urfe's, in which she
informed me that she would come to Paris and take her son back by
force if I did not bring him to London, adding that she wanted a
positive reply.  I did not ask for anything more, but I thought
Therese very insolent.

I told Aranda that his mother would be waiting for us at Abbeville in
a week's time, and that she wanted to see him.

"We will both give her the pleasure of seeing us."

"Certainly," said he; "but as you are going on to London, how shall I
come back?"

"By yourself," said Madame d'Urfe, "dressed as a postillion."

"What shall I ride post?  How delightfull"

"You must only cover eight or ten posts a day, for you have no need
to risk your life by riding all night."

"Yes, yes; but I am to dress like a postillion, am I not?"

"Yes; I will have a handsome jacket and a pair of leather breeches
made for you, and you shall have a flag with the arms of France on
it."

"They will take me for a courier going to London."

With the idea that to throw difficulties in the way would confirm him
in his desire to go, I said roughly that I could not hear of it, as
the horse might fall and break his neck.  I had to be begged and
entreated for three days before I would give in, and I did so on the
condition that he should only ride on his way back.

As he was certain of returning to Paris, he only took linen
sufficient for a very short absence; but as I knew that once at
Abbeville he could not escape me, I sent his trunk on to Calais,
where we found it on our arrival.  However, the worthy Madame d'Urfe
got him a magnificent postillion's suit, not forgetting the top-boots.

This business which offered a good many difficulties was happily
arranged by the action of pure chance; and I am glad to confess that
often in my life has chance turned the scale in my favour.

I called on a banker and got him to give me heavy credits on several
of the most important houses in London, where I wished to make
numerous acquaintances.

While I was crossing the Place des Victoires, I passed by the house
where the Corticelli lived, and my curiosity made me enter.  She was
astonished to see me, and after a long silence she burst into tears,
and said,--

"I should never have been unhappy if I had never known you."

"Yes, you would, only in some other way; your misfortunes are the
result of your bad conduct.  But tell me what are your misfortunes."

"As I could not stay in Turin after you had dishonoured me .  .  ."

"You came to dishonour yourself here, I suppose.  Drop that tone, or
else I will leave you."

She began her wretched tale, which struck me with consternation, for
I could not help feeling that I was the first and final cause of this
long list of woes.  Hence I felt it was my duty to succour her,
however ill she had treated me in the past.

"Then," said I, "you are at present the victim of a fearful disease,
heavily in debt, likely to be turned out of doors and imprisoned by
your creditors.  What do you propose to do?"

"Do!  Why, throw myself in the Seine, to be sure; that's all that is
left for me to do.  I have not a farthing left."

"And what would you do if you had some money?"

"I would put myself under the doctor's hands, in the first place, and
then if any money was left I would go to Bologna and try to get a
living somehow.  Perhaps I should have learnt a little wisdom by
experience."

"Poor girl, I pity you!  and in spite of your bad treatment of me,
which has brought you to this pass, I will not abandon you.  Here are
four louis for your present wants, and to-morrow I will tell you
where you are to go for your cure.  When you have got well again, I 
will give you enough money for the journey.  Dry your tears, repent,
amend your ways, and may God have mercy on you!"

The poor girl threw herself on the ground before me, and covered one
of my hands with kisses, begging me to forgive her for the ill she
had done me.  I comforted her and went my way, feeling very sad.  I
took a coach and drove to the Rue de Seine, where I called on an old
surgeon I knew, told him the story, and what I wanted him to do.  He
told me he could cure her in six weeks without anybody hearing about
it, but that he must be paid in advance.

"Certainly; but the girl is poor, and I am doing it out of charity."

The worthy man took a piece of paper and gave me a note addressed to
a house in the Faubourg St.  Antoine, which ran as follows:

"You will take in the person who brings you this note and three
hundred francs, and in six weeks you will send her back cured, if it
please God.  The person has reasons for not wishing to be known."

I was delighted to have managed the matter so speedily and at such a
cheap rate, and I went to bed in a calmer state of mind, deferring my
interview with my brother till the next day.

He came at eight o'clock, and, constant to his folly, told me he had
a plan to which he was sure I could have no objection.

"I don't want to hear anything about it; make your choice, Paris or
Rome."

"Give me the journey-money, I will remain at Paris; but I will give a
written engagement not to trouble you or your brother again.  That
should be sufficient."

"It is not for you to judge of that.  Begone!  I have neither the
time nor the wish to listen to you.  Remember, Paris without a
farthing, or Rome with twenty-five louis."

Thereupon I called Clairmont, and told him to put the abbe out.

I was in a hurry to have done with the Corticelli affair, and went to
the house in the Faubourg St. Antoine, where I found a kindly and
intelligent-looking man and woman, and all the arrangements of the
house satisfactory and appropriate to the performance of secret
cures.  I saw the room and the bath destined for the new boarder,
everything was clean and neat, and I gave them a hundred crowns, for
which they handed me a receipt.  I told them that the lady would
either come in the course of the day, or on the day following.

I went to dine with Madame d'Urfe and the young Count d'Aranda. 
After dinner the worthy marchioness talked to me for a long time of
her pregnancy, dwelling on her symptoms, and on the happiness that
would be hers when the babe stirred within her.  I had put to a
strong restrain upon myself to avoid bursting out laughing.  When I
had finished with her I went to the Corticelli, who called me her
saviour and her guardian angel.  I gave her two louis to get some
linen out of pawn, and promised to come and see her before I left
Paris, to give her a hundred crowns, which would take her back to
Bologna.  Then I waited on Madame du Rumain who had said farewell to
society for three weeks.

This lady had an excellent heart, and was pretty as well, but she had
so curious a society-manner that she often made me laugh most
heartily.  She talked of the sun and moon as if they were two Exalted
Personages, to whom she was about to be presented.  She was once
discussing with me the state of the elect in heaven, and said that
their greatest happiness was, no doubt, to love God to distraction,
for she had no idea of calm and peaceful bliss.

I gave her the incense for the fumigation, and told her what psalms
to recite, and then we had a delicious supper.  She told her chamber-
maid to escort me at ten o'clock to a room on the second floor which
she had furnished for me with the utmost luxury, adding,--

"Take care that the Chevalier de Seingalt is able to come into my
room at five o'clock to-morrow."

At nine o'clock I placed her legs in a bath of lukewarm water, and
taught her how to suffumigate.  Her legs were moulded by the hand of
the Graces and I wiped them amorously, laughing within myself at her
expression of gratitude, and I then laid her in bed, contenting
myself with a solemn kiss on her pretty forehead.  When it was over I
went up to my room where I was waited on by the pretty maid, who
performed her duties with that grace peculiar to the French
soubrette, and told me that as I had become her mistress's
chambermaid it was only right that she should be my valet.  Her mirth
was infectious, and I tried to make her sit down on my knee; but she
fled away like a deer, telling me that I ought to take care of myself
if I wanted to cut a good figure at five o'clock the next day.  She
was wrong, but appearances were certainly against us, and it is well
known that servants do not give their masters and mistresses the
benefit of the doubt.

At five o'clock in the morning I found Madame du Rumain nearly
dressed when I went into her room, and we immediately went into
another, from which the rising sun might have been see if the "Hotel
de Bouillon" had not been in the way, but that, of course, was a
matter of no consequence.  Madame du Rumain performed the ceremonies
with all the dignity of an ancient priestess of Baal.  She then sat
down to her piano, telling me that to find some occupation for the
long morning of nine hours would prove the hardest of all the rules,
for she did not dine till two, which was then the fashionable hour. 
We had a meat breakfast without coffee, which I had proscribed, and I
left her, promising to call again before I left Paris.

When I got back to my inn, I found my brother there looking very
uneasy at my absence at such an early hour.  When I saw him 
I cried,--

"Rome or Paris, which is it to be?"

"Rome," he replied, cringingly.

"Wait in the antechamber.  I will do your business for you."

When I had finished I called him in, and found my other brother and
his wife, who said they had come to ask me to give them a dinner.

"Welcome!" said I.  "You are come just in time to see me deal with
the abbe, who has resolved at last to go to Rome and to follow my
directions."

I sent Clairmont to the diligence office, and told him to book a
place for Lyons; and then I wrote out five bills of exchange, of five
louis each, on Lyons, Turin, Genoa, Florence, and Rome.

"Who is to assure me that these bills will be honoured?"

"I assure you, blockhead.  If you don't like them you can leave
them."

Clairmont brought the ticket for the diligence and I gave it to the
abbe, telling him roughly to be gone.

"But I may dine with you, surely?" said he.

"No, I have done with you.  Go and dine with Possano, as you are his
accomplice in the horrible attempt he made to murder me.  Clairmont,
shew this man out, and never let him set foot here again."

No doubt more than one of my readers will pronounce my treatment of
the abbe to have been barbarous; but putting aside the fact that I
owe no man an account of my thoughts, deeds, and words, nature had
implanted in me a strong dislike to this brother of mine, and his
conduct as a man and a priest, and, above all, his connivance with
Possano, had made him so hateful to me that I should have watched him
being hanged with the utmost indifference, not to say with the
greatest pleasure.  Let everyone have his own principles and his own
passions, and my favourite passion has always been vengeance.

"What did you do with the girl he eloped with?" said my sister-in-
raw.

"I sent her back to Venice with the ambassadors the better by thirty
thousand francs, some fine jewels, and a perfect outfit of clothes. 
She travelled in a carriage I gave her which was worth more than two
hundred louis."

"That's all very fine, but you must make some allowance for the
abbe's grief and rage at seeing you sleep with her."

"Fools, my dear sister, are made to suffer such grief, and many
others besides.  Did he tell you that she would not let him have
anything to do with her, and that she used to box his ears?"

"On the the contrary, he was always talking of her love for him."

"He made himself a fine fellow, I have no doubt, but the truth is, it
was a very ugly business."

After several hours of pleasant conversation my brother left, and I
took my sister-in-law to the opera.  As soon as we were alone this
poor sister of mine began to make the most bitter complaints of my
brother.

"I am no more his wife now," said she, "than I was the night before
our marriage."

"What!  Still a maid?"

"As much a maid as at the moment I was born.  They tell me I could
easily obtain a dissolution of the marriage, but besides the scandal
that would arise, I unhappily love him, and I should not like to do
anything that would give him pain."

"You are a wonderful woman, but why do you not provide a substitute
for him?"

"I know I might do so, without having to endure much remorse, but I
prefer to bear it."

"You are very praiseworthy, but in the other ways you are happy?"

"He is overwhelmed with debt, and if I liked to call upon him to give
me back my dowry he would not have a shirt to his back.  Why did he
marry me?  He must have known his impotence.  It was a dreadful thing
to do."

"Yes, but you must forgive him for it."

She had cause for complaint, for marriage without enjoyment is a
thorn without roses.  She was passionate, but her principles were
stronger than her passions, or else she would have sought for what
she wanted elsewhere.  My impotent brother excused himself by saying
that he loved her so well that he thought cohabitation with her would
restore the missing faculty; he deceived himself and her at the same
time.  In time she died, and he married another woman with the same
idea, but this time passion was stronger than virtue, and his new
wife drove him away from Paris.  I shall say more of him in twenty
years time.

At six o'clock the next morning the abbe went off in the diligence,
and I did not see him for six years.  I spent the day with Madame
d'Urfe, and I agreed, outwardly, that young d'Aranda should return to
Paris as a postillion.  I fixed our departure for the day after next.

The following day, after dining with Madame d'Urfe who continued to
revel in the joys of her regeneration, I paid a visit to the
Corticelli in her asylum.  I found her sad and suffering, but
content, and well pleased with the gentleness of the surgeon and his
wife, who told me they would effect a radical cure.  I gave her
twelve louis, promising to send her twelve more as soon as I had
received a letter from her written at Bologna.  She promised she
would write to me, but the poor unfortunate was never able to keep
her word, for she succumbed to the treatment, as the old surgeon
wrote to me, when I was at London.  He asked what he should do with
the twelve louis which she had left to one Madame Laura, who was
perhaps known to me.  I sent him her address, and the honest surgeon
hastened to fulfil the last wishes of the deceased.

All the persons who helped me in my magical operations with Madame
d'Urfe betrayed me, Marcoline excepted, and all save the fair
Venetian died miserably.  Later on the reader will hear more of
Possano and Costa.

The day before I left for London I supped with Madame du Rumain, who
told me that her voice was already beginning to return.  She added a
sage reflection which pleased me highly.

"I should think," she observed, "that the careful living prescribed
by the cabala must have a good effect on my health."

"Most certainly," said I, "and if you continue to observe the rules
you will keep both your health and your voice."

I knew that it is often necessary to deceive before one can instruct;
the shadows must come before the dawn.

I took leave of my worthy Madame d'Urfe with an emotion which I had
never experienced before; it must have been a warning that I should
never see her again.  I assured her that I would faithfully observe
all my promises, and she replied that her happiness was complete, and
that she knew she owed it all to me.  In fine, I took d'Aranda and
his top-boots, which he was continually admiring, to my inn, whence
we started in the evening, as he had begged me to travel by night. 
He was ashamed to be seen in a carriage dressed as a courier.

When we reached Abbeville he asked me where his mother was.

"We will see about it after dinner."

"But you can find out in a moment whether she is here or not?"

"Yes, but there is no hurry."

"And what will you do if she is not here?"

"We will go on till we meet her on the way.  In the meanwhile let us
go and see the famous manufactory of M. Varobes before dinner."

"Go by yourself.  I am tired, and I will sleep till you come back."

"Very good."

I spent two hours in going over the magnificent establishment, the
owner himself shewing it me, and then I went back to dinner and
called for my young gentleman.

"He started for Paris riding post," replied the innkeeper, who was
also the post-master, "five minutes after you left.  He said he was
going after some dispatches you had left at Paris."

"If you don't get him back I will ruin you with law-suits; you had no
business to let him have a horse without my orders."

"I will capture the little rascal, sir, before he has got to Amiens."

He called a smart-looking postillion, who laughed when he heard what
was wanted.

"I would catch him up," said he, "even if he had four hours start. 
You shall have him here at six o'clock."

"I will give you two louis."

"I would catch him for that, though he were a very lark."

He was in the saddle in five minutes, and by the rate at which he
started I did not doubt his success.  Nevertheless I could not enjoy
my dinner.  I felt so ashamed to have been taken in by a lad without
any knowledge of the world.  I lay down on a bed and slept till the
postillion aroused me by coming in with the runaway, who looked half
dead.  I said nothing to him, but gave orders that he should be
locked up in a good room, with a good bed to sleep on, and a good
supper; and I told the landlord that I should hold him answerable for
the lad as long as I was in his inn.  The postillion had caught him 
up at the fifth post, just before Amiens, and as he was already quite
tired out the little man surrendered like a lamb.

At day-break I summoned him before me, and asked him if he would come
to London of his own free will or bound hand and foot.

"I will come with you, I give you my word of honour; but you must let
me ride on before you.  Otherwise, with this dress of mine, I should
be ashamed to go.  I don't want it to be thought that you had to give
chase to me, as if I had robbed you."

"I accept your word of honour, but be careful to keep it.  Embrace
me, and order another saddle-horse."

He mounted his horse in high spirits, and rode in front of the
carriage with Clairmont.  He was quite astonished to find his trunk
at Calais, which he reached two hours before me.