e feet against the side of the old well on which she was sitting.

"A wedding! what connection subsists, pray, between the bonds of
matrimony, and a tune on the bagpipes?"

"I don't know what you mean by bagpipes--I only know that when people
get married in the country, they go about with the musicians playing
before them. What you hear yonder is a violin and a _cornemuse_."

"A _cornemuse!_" I repeated. "What's that?"

"Oh, country music. A thing you blow into with your mouth, and play upon
with your fingers, and squeeze under your arm--like this."

"Then it's the same thing, _ma chere_," said I. "A bagpipes and a
_cornemuse_--a _cornemuse_ and bagpipes. Both of them national, popular,
and frightful."

"I'm so fond of music," said Josephine.

Not wishing to object to her tastes, and believing that this observation
related to the music then audible, I made no reply.

"And I have never been to an opera," added she.

I was still silent, though from another motive.

"You will take me one night to the Italiens, or the Opera Comique, will
you not, Monsieur Basil?" pursued she, determined not to lose her
opportunity.

I had now no resource but to promise; which I did, very reluctantly.

"You would enjoy the Opera Comique far more than the Italiens," said I,
remembering that Madame de Marignan had a box at the Italiens, and
rapidly weighing the chances for and against the possibility of
recognition. "At the first they sing in French--at the last,
in Italian,"

"Ah, bah! I should prefer the French," replied she, falling at once into
the snare. "When shall it be--this week?"

"Ye--es; one evening this week."

"What evening?"

"Well, let me see--we had better wait, and consult the advertisements."

"_Dame_! never mind the advertisements. Let it be Tuesday."

"Why Tuesday?"

"Because it is soon; and because I can get away early on Tuesdays if I
ask leave."

I had, plainly, no chance of escape.

"You would not prefer to see the great military piece at the Porte St.
Martin?" I suggested. "There are three hundred real soldiers in it, and
they fire real cannon."

"Not I! I have been to the Porte St. Martin, over and over again. Emile
knew one of the scene-painter's assistants, and used to get tickets two
or three times a month."

"Then it shall be the Opera Comique," said I, with a sigh.

"And on Tuesday evening next."

"On Tuesday evening next."

At this moment the piping and fiddling broke out afres