on -- for he _did_ arrive about three
years before ourselves -- was for reasons of their own kept a
dead secret by the priests to whom he was brought), is about
to be effectually closed. But before this is done, a messenger
is to be despatched bearing with him this manuscript, and also
one or two letters from Good to his friends, and from myself
to my brother George, whom it deeply grieves me to think I shall
never see again, informing them, as our next heirs, that they
are welcome to our effects in England, if the Court of Probate
will allow them to take them {Endnote 22}, inasmuchas we have
made up our minds never to return to Europe. Indeed, it would
be impossible for us to leave Zu-Vendis even if we wished to do so.

The messenger who is to go -- and I wish him joy of his journey
-- is Alphonse. For a long while he has been wearied to death
of Zu-Vendis and its inhabitants. 'Oh, oui, c'est beau,' he
says, with an expressive shrug; 'mais je m'ennuie; ce n'est pas
chic.' Again, he complains dreadfully of the absence of cafes
and theatres, and moans continually for his lost Annette, of
whom he says he dreams three times a week. But I fancy his secret
cause of disgust at the country, putting aside the homesickness
to which every Frenchman is subject, is that the people here laugh
at him so dreadfully about his conduct on the occasion of the
great battle of the Pass about eighteen months ago, when he hid
beneath a banner in Sorais's tent in order to avoid being sent
forth to fight, which he says would have gone against his conscience.
Even the little boys call out at him in the streets, thereby
offending his pride and making his life unbearable. At any rate,
he has determined to brave the horrors of a journey of almost
unprecedented difficulty and danger, and also to run the risk
of falling into the hands of the French police to answer for
a certain little indiscretion of his own some years old (though
I do not consider that a very serious matter), rather than remain
in ce triste pays. Poor Alphonse! we shall be very sorry to
part with him; but I sincerely trust, for his own sake and also
for the sake of this history, which is, I think, worth giving
to the world, that he may arrive in safety. If he does, and
can carry the treasure we have provided him with in the shape
of bars of solid gold, he will be, comparatively speaking, a
rich man for life, and well able to marry his Annette, if she
is still in the lan