The Countess, suspecting what they had been after, resumed the conversation as soon as Mr. Jorrocks was seated.—­“You shall manger cinque fois every day,” said she; “cinque fois,” she repeated.—­“Humph!” said Mr. Jorrocks to himself, “what can that mean?—­cank four—­four times five’s twenty—­eat twenty times a day—­not possible!” “Oui, Monsieur, cinque fois,” repeated the Countess, telling the number off on her fingers—­“Cafe at nine of the matin, dejeuner a la fourchette at onze o’clock, diner at cinque heure, cafe at six hour, and souper at neuf hour.”  “Upon my word,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, his eyes sparkling with pleasure, “your offer is werry inwiting.  My lady,” said he, bowing before her, “Je suis—­I am much flattered.”  “And, Monsieur?” said she, looking at the Yorkshireman.  He, too, assured her that he was very much flattered, and was beginning to excuse himself, when the Countess interrupted him somewhat abruptly by turning to Mr. Jorrocks and saying, “He sall be your son—­n’est ce pas?” “No, my lady, I’ve no children,” replied he, and the Countess’s eyes in their turn underwent a momentary illumination.

The Parisian barrier was soon reached, and the man taken up to kick about the jaded travellers’ luggage at the journey’s end.  While this operation was going on in the diligence yard, the Countess stuck close to Mr. Jorrocks, and having dispatched Agamemnon for a fiacre, bundled him in, luggage and all, and desiring her worthy domestic to mount the box, and direct the driver, she kissed her hand to the Yorkshireman, assuring him she would be most happy to see him, in proof of which, she drove away without telling him her number, or where the Rue des Mauvais-Garcons was.

Paris is a charming place after the heat of the summer has passed away, and the fine, clear, autumnal days arrive.  Then is the time to see the Tuileries gardens to perfection, when the Parisians have returned from their chateaus, and emigrating English and those homeward bound halt to renovate on the road; then is the time that the gayest plants put forth their brightest hues, and drooping orange flowers scent the air which silvery fountains lend their aid to cool.

On a Sunday afternoon, such as we have described, our friend Mr. Stubbs (who since his arrival had been living very comfortably at the Hotel d’Hollande, in expectation of Mr. Jorrocks paying his bill) indulged in six sous’ worth of chairs—­one to sit upon and one for each leg—­and, John Bull-like, stretched himself out in the shade beneath the lofty trees, to view the gay groups who promenaded the alleys before him.  First, there came a helmeted cuirassier, with his wife in blue satin, and a little boy in his hand in uniform, with a wooden sword, a perfect miniature of the father; then a group of short-petticoated, shuffling French women, each with an Italian greyhound in slips, followed by an awkward Englishman with a sister on each arm, all stepping out like grenadiers;