Market and the Belleville abattoirs. On the thirtieth of April, at an
ambitiously early hour, wearing my gardening cap, with my sketch-book
sticking out of my pocket, my tin box in one hand and my stout stick
in the other, I emerged among the staring porters of the neighboring
houses, and it was in this equipment that I received the renewed
lamentations of Charles and Josephine.

[Illustration]

"Will you dare to go along the Boulevard looking like that, sir?" said
Josephine.

"A gentleman in a cap! They'll take you for a bricklayer--indeed they
will, sir," said Charles; "or rather for a milkman, with his tin can.
I can't stand that: I will carry it rather myself, though I feel my
rheumatics on these damp pavements."

"Monsieur Paul must take a cab--at least to the barrier: it will not
be pleasant to make a scandal in the street."

"Who will tend Monsieur Paul these two days, now?" This was uttered
with manly grief by Charles.

"And whoever will cook for him along the road?" It was Josephine who
asked the question with a heavy sigh.

To make an end of this charming scene of Old Virginia faithfulness,
I put my best leg out and departed with gymnastic sprightliness. An
instant after I turned my head.