“How! traitor! in reality?” said the Chevalier de Grammont.  “It is then because I have not had thee well thrashed, as thou hast for a long time merited.”  “Look ye, Sir,” replied Termes, “you always run into a passion, instead of listening to reason!  Yes, Sir, I maintain that what I did was for your benefit.”  “And was not the quicksand likewise for my service?” said the Chevalier de Grammont.  “Have patience, if you please,” pursued the other:  “I know not how that simpleton of a bridegroom happened to be at the custom-house when my portmanteau was examined at Calais:  but these silly cuckolds thrust in their noses everywhere.  As soon as ever he saw your coat, he fell in love with it.  I immediately perceived he was a fool; for he fell down upon his knees, beseeching me to sell it him.  Besides being greatly rumpled in the portmanteau, it was all stained in front by the sweat of the horses.  I wonder how the devil he has managed to get it cleaned; but, faith, I am the greatest scoundrel in the world, if you would ever have put it on.  In a word, it cost you one hundred and forty louis d’ors, and seeing he offered me one hundred and fifty for it; ‘My master,’ said I, ’has no occasion for this tinselled bauble to distinguish him at the ball; and, although he was pretty full of cash when I left him, how know I in what situation he may be upon my return? there is no certainty at play.’  To be brief, Sir, I got ten louis d’ors for it more than it cost you:  this you see is all clear profit:  I will be accountable to you for it, and you know that I am sufficiently substantial to make good such a sum.  Confess now, do you think you would have appeared to greater advantage at the ball, if you had been dressed out in that damned coat, which would have made you look just like the village bridegroom to whom we sold it? and yet how you stormed at London when you thought it lost; what fine stories you told the king about the quicksand; and how churlish you looked, when you first began to suppose that this country booby wore it at his wedding!”

What could the Chevalier reply to such uncommon impudence?  If he indulged his resentment, he must either have most severely bastinadoed him, or he must have discarded him, as the easiest escape the rogue could expect; but he had occasion for him during the remainder of his journey; and, as soon as he was at Paris, he had occasion for him for his return.

The Marechal de Grammont had no sooner notice of his arrival than he went to him at the hotel; and, the first embraces being over on both sides, “Chevalier,” said the Marechal, “how many days have you been in coming from London hither? for God knows at what a rate you travel on such occasions.”  The Chevalier told him he had been three days upon the road; and, to excuse himself for making no more haste, he related to him his Abbeville adventure.  “It is a very entertaining one,” said his brother; “but what is yet more entertaining is, that it