"They call it, France," returned the boy, who understood enough of the
other's language to comprehend his meaning; "and a very good country it
is--for those that like it."

"Ma foi, non!"--exclaimed François, recoiling a pace, between amazement
and delight.

"Call it Holland, then, if you prefer that country most."

"Dites-moi, Monsieur Hoppair," continued the valet, laying a trembling
finger on the arm of the remorseless young rogue; "est-ce la France?"

"One would think a man of your observation could tell that for himself. Do
you not see the church-tower, with a chateau in the back-ground, and a
village built in a heap, by its side. Now look into yon wood! There is a
walk, straight as a ship's wake in smooth water, and one--two--three--ay,
eleven statues, with just one nose among them all!"

"Ma foi--dere is not no wood, and no château and no village, and no
statue, and no no nose,--mais Monsieur, je suis agé--est-ce la France?"

"Oh, you miss nothing by having an indifferent sight, for I shall explain
it all, as we go along. You see yonder hill-side, looking like a
pattern-card, of green and yellow stripes, or a signal-book, with the
flags of all nations, placed side by side--well, that is--les champs; and
this beautiful wood, with all the branches trimmed till it looks like so
many raw marines at drill, is--la forêt----"

The credulity of the warm-hearted valet could swallow no more; but,
assuming a look of commiseration and dignity, he drew back, and left the