the conducteur came and
hurried them back into the diligence, and closed the door with a bang,
to be sure of having his passengers there while he and the postilion
shuffled the cards and cut for a glass of _eau-de-vie_ apiece.

The Countess, suspecting what they had been after, resumed the
conversation as soon as Mr. Jorrocks was seated.--"You shall manger
cinque fois every day," said she; "cinque fois," she repeated.--"Humph!"
said Mr. Jorrocks to himself, "what can that mean?--cank four--four
times five's twenty--eat twenty times a day--not possible!" "Oui,
Monsieur, cinque fois," repeated the Countess, telling the number off
on her fingers--"Cafe at nine of the matin, dejeuner a la fourchette at
onze o'clock, diner at cinque heure, cafe at six hour, and souper at
neuf hour." "Upon my word," replied Mr. Jorrocks, his eyes sparkling
with pleasure, "your offer is werry inwiting. My lady," said he, bowing
before her, "Je suis--I am much flattered." "And, Monsieur?" said she,
looking at the Yorkshireman. He, too, assured her that he was very
much flattered, and was beginning to excuse himself, when the Countess
interrupted him somewhat abruptly by turning to Mr. Jorrocks and saying,
"He sall be your son--n'est ce pas?" "No, my lady, I've no children,"
replied he, and the Countess's eyes in their turn underwent a momentary
illumination.

The Parisian barrier was soon reached, and the man taken up to kick
about the jaded travellers' luggage at the journey's end. While this
operation was going on in the diligence yard, the Countess stuck close
to Mr. Jorrocks, and having dispatched Agamemnon for a fiacre, bundled
him in, luggage and all, and desiring her worthy domestic to mount the
box, and direct the driver, she kissed her hand to the Yorkshireman,
assuring him she would be most happy to see him, in proof of which,
she drove away without telling him her number, or where the Rue des
Mauvais-Garcons was.

Paris is a charming place after the heat of the summer has passed away,
and the fine, clear, autumnal days arrive. Then is the time to see the
Tuileries gardens to perfection, when the Parisians have returned from
their chateaus, and emigrating English and those homeward bound halt to
renovate on the road; then is the time that the gayest plants put forth
their brightest hues, and drooping orange flowers scent the air which
silvery fountains lend their aid to cool.

On a Sunday afternoon, such as we have described, our