n, Laurence Callaghan--otherwise La Jeunesse,
and Maitre Hebert, the _maitre d'hotel_. Fain would Arthur have shared
their elevation, so far as ease and comfort of mind and body went, and
the Countess's wishes may have gone the same way; but besides that it
would have been an insult to class him with the servants, the horses of
the home establishment, driven by their own coachman, took the party the
first stage out of Paris; and though afterwards the post-horses or mules,
six in number, would be ridden by their own postilions, there was such an
amount of luggage as to leave little or no space for a third person
outside.

It had been a perfect sight to see the carriage packed; when Arthur,
convoyed by Lord Nithsdale, arrived in the courtyard of the Hotel de
Varennes. Madame de Bourke was taking with her all the paraphernalia of
an ambassador--a service of plate, in a huge chest stowed under the seat,
a portrait of Philip V., in a gold frame set with diamonds, being
included among her jewellery--and Lord Nithsdale, standing by, could not
but drily remark, 'Yonder is more than we brought with us, Arthur.'

The two walked up and down the court together, unwilling to intrude on
the parting which, as they well knew, would be made in floods of tears.
Sad enough indeed it was, for Madame de Varennes was advanced in years,
and her daughter had not only to part with her, but with the baby
Jacques, for an unknown space of time; but the self-command and restraint
of grief for the sake of each other was absolutely unknown. It was a
point of honour and sentiment to weep as much as possible, and it would
have been regarded as frigid and unnatural not to go on crying too much
to eat or speak for a whole day beforehand, and at least two afterwards.

So when the travellers descended the steps to take their seats, each face
was enveloped in a handkerchief, and there were passionate embraces,
literal pressings to the breast, and violent sobs, as each victim, one
after the other, ascended the carriage steps and fell back on the seat;
while in the background, Honor Callaghan was uttering Irish wails over
the Abbe and Laurence, and the lamentable sound set the little lap-dog
and the big watch-dog howling in chorus. Arthur Hope, probably as
miserable as any of them in parting with his friend and hero, was only
standing like a stake, and an embarrassed stake (if that be possible),
and Lord Nithsdale, though anxious for him, heartily pityin