week's time, and that she wanted to see him.

"We will both give her the pleasure of seeing us."

"Certainly," said he; "but as you are going on to London, how shall I
come back?"

"By yourself," said Madame d'Urfe, "dressed as a postillion."

"What shall I ride post? How delightful!"

"You must only cover eight or ten posts a day, for you have no need to
risk your life by riding all night."

"Yes, yes; but I am to dress like a postillion, am I not?"

"Yes; I will have a handsome jacket and a pair of leather breeches made
for you, and you shall have a flag with the arms of France on it."

"They will take me for a courier going to London."

With the idea that to throw difficulties in the way would confirm him in
his desire to go, I said roughly that I could not hear of it, as the
horse might fall and break his neck. I had to be begged and entreated for
three days before I would give in, and I did so on the condition that he
should only ride on his way back.

As he was certain of returning to Paris, he only took linen sufficient
for a very short absence; but as I knew that once at Abbeville he could
not escape me, I sent his trunk on to Calais, where we found it on our
arrival. However, the worthy Madame d'Urfe got him a magnificent
postillion's suit, not forgetting the top-boots.

This business which offered a good many difficulties was happily arranged
by the action of pure chance; and I am glad to confess that often in my
life has chance turned the scale in my favour.

I called on a banker and got him to give me heavy credits on several of
the most important houses in London, where I wished to make numerous
acquaintances.

While I was crossing the Place des Victoires, I passed by the house where
the Corticelli lived, and my curiosity made me enter. She was astonished
to see me, and after a long silence she burst into tears, and said,--

"I should never have been unhappy if I had never known you."

"Yes, you would, only in some other way; your misfortunes are the result
of your bad conduct. But tell me what are your misfortunes."

"As I could not stay in Turin after you had dishonoured me . . ."

"You came to dishonour yourself here, I suppose. Drop that tone, or else
I will leave you."

She began her wretched tale, which struck me with consternation, for I
could not help feeling that I was the first and final cause of this long
list of woes. Hence I felt it was my duty to succour her, however ill