rney of several months'
duration, to go--they knew not whither.

A few minutes before ten, click-clack, click-clack, gave notice of the
approach of the post-horses. The _porte-cochere_ opened, and two
votaries of the old-fashioned boot enter, each riding one and leading
another horse. All this is done quietly, and as a matter of course; the
cattle are put before the carriage without a question being asked, and
the two liveried roadsters place themselves by the sides of their
respective beasts. In the mean time, we had entered the caleche, said
adieu to the cook, who was left in charge of the apartment, a trust that
might, however, equally well have been confided to the porter, kissed
our hands to the family of M. de V----, and the other inmates of the
hotel, who crowded the windows to see us off. Up to this moment, I had
not decided even by what road to travel! The passport had been taken out
for Brussels, and last year, you may recollect, we went to that place by
Dieppe, Abbeville, Douay, and Arras. The "Par quelle route, monsieur?"
of the postilion that rode the wheel-horse, who stood with a foot in the
stirrup, ready to get up, brought me to a conclusion. "A St. Denis!" the
question compelling a decision, and all my doubts terminating, as doubts
are apt to terminate, by taking the most beaten path.

The day was cool and excessively windy, while the thermometer had stood
the previous afternoon but one, at 93 deg., in the shade. We were compelled
to travel with the carriage-windows closed, the weather being almost
wintry. As we drove through the streets, the common women cried after
us, "They are running away from the cholera;" an accusation that we felt
we did not merit, after having stood our ground during the terrible
months of April and May. But popular impulses are usually just as
undiscriminating as the favouritism of the great: the mistake is in
supposing that one is any better than the other.

When we had reached the city where the Kings of France are buried, it
was determined to sleep at Senlis, which was only four posts further,
the little town that we visited with so much satisfaction in 1827. This
deviation from the more direct road led us by Gonesse, and through a
district of grain country, that is less monotonous than most of the
great roads that lead from Paris. We got a good view of the chateau of
Ecouen, looking vast and stately, seated on the side of a distant hill.
I do not know into whose hands th