may have been ten days ago that a stranger called in and
asked if I had any news of the corporal who praised my white wine. 'Have
I any news,' said I, 'of a needle in a bundle of hay? They all praise
it.'" (O, Madame Jupille!)

"'The corporal I'm speaking of,' said he, 'is or was called
Champdivers.' '_Was!_' I cried, 'you are not going to tell me he is
dead?' and I declare to you, comrade, the tears came into my eyes. 'No,
he is not,' said the stranger, 'and the best proof is that he will be
here inquiring for letters before long. You are to tell him that if he
expects one from'--see, I took the name down on a scrap of paper, and
stuck it in a wine-glass here--'from Miss Flora Gilchrist, he will do
well to wait in Paris until a friend finds means to deliver it by hand.
And if he asks more about me, say that I am from'--tenez, I wrote the
second name underneath--yes, that is it--'Mr. Romaine.'"

"Confound his caution!" said I. "What sort of man was this messenger?"

"O, a staid-looking man, dark and civil-spoken. You might call him an
upper servant, or perhaps a notary's clerk; very plainly dressed, in
black."

"He spoke French?"

"_Parfaitement._ What else?"

"And he has not called again?"

"To be sure, yes, and the day before yesterday, and seemed quite
disappointed. 'Is there anything Monsieur would like to add to his
message?' I asked. 'No,' said he, 'or stay, tell him that all goes well
in the north, but he must not leave Paris until I see him.'"

You may guess how I cursed Mr. Romaine for this beating about the bush.
If all went well in the north, what possible excuse of caution could the
man have for holding back Flora's letter? And how, in any case, could it
compromise me here in Paris? I had half a mind to take the bit in my
teeth and post off at once for Calais. Still, there was the plain
injunction, and the lawyer doubtless had a reason for it hidden
somewhere behind his tiresome circumambulatory approaches. And his
messenger might be back at any hour.

Therefore, though it went against the grain, I thought it prudent to
take lodgings with Madame Jupille and possess my soul in patience. You
will say that it should not have been difficult to kill time in Paris
between the 31st of March and the 5th of April 1814. The entry of the
Allies, Marmont's supreme betrayal, the Emperor's abdication, the
Cossacks in the streets, the newspaper offices at work like hives under
their new editors, and buzzing cont