military attended the service in the cathedral in order to witness the devotions of the Bourbon family.  Monsieur has all the appearance of a worn out debauchee, and to see him with a missal in his hand and the strange contrite face he assumes, is truly ridiculous.  These princes, instigated no doubt by the priests, make a great parade of their sanctity, for which however those who are acquainted with their character will not give them much credit.  But religious cant is the order of the day intra et extra Iliacos muros, abroad as well as in England.  The King of France takes the lead, having in view no doubt the advice of Buckingham to Richard III: 

  A pray’r book in your hand, my Lord, were well,
  For on that ground I’ll make an holy descant.

and M. de Chateaubriand will no doubt trumpet forth the devotion and Christian humility of his master.  Those, however, who are at all acquainted with this prince’s habits, and are not interested in palliating or concealing them, insinuate that his devotions at the table are more sincere than at the altar and that, like the Giant Margutte in the Morgante Maggiore of Pulci, he places more faith and reliance on a cappone lesso ossia arrosto than on the consecrated but less substantial wafer.[2]

After contemplating this edifying spectacle, we returned to our inn, and the next morning after breakfast we set out on our journey to Bruxelles.  The road is exactly similar to that between Bruges and Gand, but the country appears to be richer and more diversified, and many country houses were observable on the road side.  We passed thus several neat villages.  At one o’clock we stopped at Alost to refresh our horses and dine.  At the table d’hote were a number of French officers belonging to the Gardes du Corps.  On entering into conversation with one of them, I found that he as well as several others of them had served under Napoleon, and had even been patronised and promoted by him; but I suppose that being the sons of the ancient noblesse they thought that gratitude to a parvenu like him was rather too plebeian a virtue.  Some of them, however, with whom I conversed after dinner seemed to regret the step they had taken.  “If we are successful,” said they, “it can only be by means of the Allied Armies, and who knows what conditions they may impose on France?  If we should be unsuccessful, we are exiled probably for life from our country.”  During dinner, two pretty looking girls with musical instruments entered the hall, and regaled our ears with singing some romances, among which were Dunois le Troubadour and La Sentinelle.  They sang with much taste and feeling.  I surmise this is not the only profession they exercise, if I might judge from the doux yeux they occasionally directed to some of the officers.  These girls did not at least seem by their demeanour as if likely to incur the anathema of Rinaldo in the Orlando Furioso: