When we were once more upon the road, to efface if it might be necessary any unpleasant recurrence to the late scene, I proceeded to give Mrs. Bingham an account of my adventure at Chantraine, in which, of course, I endeavoured to render my friend O’Leary all the honours of being laughed at in preference to myself, laying little stress upon my masquerading in the jack-boots.

“You are quite right,” said O’Leary, joining in the hearty laugh against him, “quite right, I was always a very heavy sleeper—­indeed if I wasn’t I wouldn’t be here now, travelling about en garcon, free as air;” here he heaved a sigh, which from its incongruity with his jovial look and happy expression, threw us all into renewed laughter.

“But why, Mr. O’Leary—­what can your sleepiness have to do with such tender recollections, for such, I am sure, that sigh bespeaks them?”

“Ah! ma’am, it may seem strange, but it is nevertheless true, if it were not for that unfortunate tendency, I should now be the happy possessor of a most accomplished and amiable lady, and eight hundred per annum three and a half per cent. stock.”

“You overslept yourself on the wedding-day, I suppose.”

“You shall hear, ma’am, the story is a very short one:  It is now about eight years ago, I was rambling through the south of France, and had just reached Lyons, where the confounded pavement, that sticks up like pears, with the point upwards, had compelled me to rest some days and recruit; for this purpose I installed myself in the pension of Madame Gourgead, Rue de Petits Carmes, a quiet house—­where we dined at twelve, ten in number, upon about two pounds of stewed beef, with garlic and carrots —­a light soup, being the water which accompanied the same to render it tender in stewing—­some preserved cherries, and an omelette, with a pint bottle of Beaune, 6me qualite, I believe—­a species of pyroligneous wine made from the vine stalks, but pleasant in summer with your salad; then we played dominos in the evening, or whist for sous points, leading altogether a very quiet and virtuous existence, or as Madame herself expressed it, ‘une vie tout-a-fait patriarchale;’ of this I cannot myself affirm how far she was right in supposing the patriarchs did exactly like us.  But to proceed, in the same establishment there lived a widow whose late husband had been a wine merchant at Dijon—­he had also, I suppose from residing in that country, been imitating the patriarchs, for he died one day.  Well, the lady was delayed at Lyons for some law business, and thus it came about, that her husband’s testament and the sharp paving stones in the streets determined we should be acquainted.  I cannot express to you the delight of my fair countrywoman at finding that a person who spoke English had arrived at the ’pension’—­a feeling I myself somewhat participated in; for to say truth, I was not at that time a very great proficient in French.  We soon became intimate, in less time probably than it could otherwise have happened, for from the ignorance of all the others of one word of English, I was enabled during dinner to say many soft and tender things, which one does not usually venture on in company.