that he was sure we were
_gens de mauvaise vie_, and that he would shoot us if we did not go away.
The postillion and I then determined on retrograding two miles, the
distance of the nearest village, and remaining there till morning. We
arrived there with no small difficulty and labour, for it snowed very fast
and heavily, and it required a good deal of bodily exertion to push on the
carriage. Arrived at the village, we knocked at the door of a small
cottage, the owner of which sold some brandy. He received me very civilly,
gave me some eggs and bacon for supper, and a very fair bed.

The next morning, after having the axle tree repaired, we proceeded on our
journey to Compiegne. I suffered much from the cold during this adventure,
and did not sleep well, having fallen into a train of thought which
prevented me from so doing; and I could not help bringing to my
recollection the adventure of Raymond in the forest near Strassburg, in the
romance of _The Monk_. Nothing worthy of note occurred during the rest of
the journey; but this adventure obliged me to remain one day at Compiegne
to wait for the next diligence.

PARIS, April 8th, 1816.

I delivered my letters to the Wardle family and am very much pleased with
them. I meet a very agreeable society at their house. Col Wardle is quite a
republican and very rigid in his principles.[60] His daughter is a young
lady of first rate talents and has already distinguished herself by some
poetical compositions. I met at their house Mrs Wallis, the sister of Sir
R. Wilson.[61] She is an enthusiastic Napoleonist, and wears at times a
tricolored scarf and a gold chain with a medal of Napoleon's head attached
to it; this head she sometimes, to amuse herself, compels the old emigrants
she meets with in society to kiss. The trial of her brother is now going on
for aiding and abetting the escape of Lavalette. I sincerely hope he will
escape any severity of punishment, but I more fear the effects of Tory
vengeance against him in England, in the shape of depriving him of his
commission, than I do the sentence of any French court. Yet tho' I wish him
well, I cannot help feeling the remains of a little grudge against him for
his calumny against Napoleon in accusing him of poisoning the sick of his
own army before the walls of St Jean d'Acre. I have always vindicated the
character of Napoleon from this most unjust and unfounded aspersion,
because having been in Egypt with Abercrombie's ar