Rage had now taken such a hold upon me, that I forgot my ridiculous appearance in my thirst for vengeance.  I marched on through the grinning crowd, with the step of a martyr.  I suppose my heroic bearing and warlike deportment must have heightened the drollery of the scene; for the devils only laughed the more.  The bureau of the maire could not contain one-tenth of the anxious and curious individuals who thronged the entrance, and for about twenty minutes the whole efforts of the gens-d’armes were little enough to keep order and maintain silence.  At length the maire made his appearance, and accustomed as he had been for a long life to scenes of an absurd and extraordinary nature, yet the ridicule of my look and costume was too much, and he laughed outright.  This was of course the signal for renewed mirth for the crowd, while those without doors, infected by the example, took up the jest, and I had the pleasure of a short calculation, a la Babbage, of how many maxillary jaws were at that same moment wagging at my expense.

However, the examination commenced; and I at length obtained an opportunity of explaining under what circumstances I had left my room, and how and why I had been induced to don this confounded cause of all my misery.

“This may be very true,” said the mayor, “as it is very plausible; if you have evidence to prove what you have stated—­”

“If it’s evidence only is wanting, Mr. Maire, I’ll confirm one part of the story,” said a voice in the crowd, in an accent and tone that assured me the speaker was the injured proprietor of the stolen blankets.  I turned round hastily to look at my victim, and what was my surprise to recognize a very old Dublin acquaintance, Mr. Fitzmaurice O’Leary.

“Good morning, Mr. Lorrequer,” said he; “this is mighty like our ould practices in College-green; but upon my conscience the maire has the advantage of Gabbet.  It’s lucky for you I know his worship, as we’d call him at home, or this might be a serious business.  Nothing would persuade them that you were not Lucien Buonaparte, or the iron mask, or something of that sort, if they took it into their heads.”

Mr. O’Leary was as good as his word.  In a species of French, that I’d venture to say would be perfectly intelligible in Mullingar, he contrived to explain to the maire that I was neither a runaway nor a swindler, but a very old friend of his, and consequently sans reproche.  The official was now as profuse of his civilities as he had before been of his suspicions, and most hospitably pressed us to stay for breakfast.  This, for many reasons, I was obliged to decline—­not the least of which was, my impatience to get out of my present costume.  We accordingly procured a carriage, and I returned to the hotel, screened from the gaze but still accompanied by the shouts of the mob, who evidently took a most lively interest in the entire proceeding.

I lost no time in changing my costume, and was about to descend to the saloon, when the master of the house came to inform me that Mrs. Bingham’s courier had arrived with the carriage, and that she expected us at Amiens as soon as possible.