_Mark-Tapley_-like spirits would probably be only exhilarated by a
lonely night in the Catacombs. Then he shakes hands with me violently.
In France he insists upon shaking hands on every possible occasion
with anybody, in order to convey to his own countrymen the idea of
what a thorough Briton he is.

"_Vous avez eu votre café? Eh bien alors--allons! pour passer chez
mon ami_ VESQUIER," says DAUBINET, at the same time signalling a
meandering fly-driver who, having pulled up near the Cathedral, is
sitting lazily on his box perusing a newspaper. He looks up, catches
sight of DAUBINET, nods, folds up the paper, sits on it, gives the
reins one shake to wake up the horse, and another, with a crack of
his whip, to set the sleepy animal in motion, and, the animal being
partially roused, he drives across the street to us. DAUBINET directs
him, and on we go, lumbering and rattling through the town, meeting
only one other _voiture_, whose driver appears infinitely amused at
his friend having obtained a fare. Some chaff passes between them,
which to me is unintelligible, and which DAUBINET professes not to
catch, but I fancy, whatever it is, it is not highly complimentary to
our _cocher's_ fares. In one quarter through which we drive, they are
setting up the booths and roundabouts for a Fair.

"They can't do much business here," I observe to my companion.

"Immense!" he replies.--"But there's no one about."

[Illustration]

"There will be," he returns. "Manufacturing town--everybody engaged
in business. Bell rings--_Caramba!_--out they come, like the