afterwards the post-horses or mules, six in number, would be ridden by
their own postilions, there was such an amount of luggage as to leave
little or no space for a third person outside.

It had been a perfect sight to see the carriage packed; when Arthur,
convoyed by Lord Nithsdale, arrived in the courtyard of the Hotel de
Varennes. Madame de Bourke was taking with her all the paraphernalia
of an ambassador--a service of plate, in a huge chest stowed under the
seat, a portrait of Philip V., in a gold frame set with diamonds, being
included among her jewellery--and Lord Nithsdale, standing by, could
not but drily remark, 'Yonder is more than we brought with us, Arthur.'

The two walked up and down the court together, unwilling to intrude on
the parting which, as they well knew, would be made in floods of tears.
Sad enough indeed it was, for Madame de Varennes was advanced in years,
and her daughter had not only to part with her, but with the baby
Jacques, for an unknown space of time; but the self-command and
restraint of grief for the sake of each other was absolutely unknown.
It was a point of honour and sentiment to weep as much as possible, and
it would have been regarded as frigid and unnatural not to go on crying
too much to eat or speak for a whole day beforehand, and at least two
afterwards.

So when the travellers descended the steps to take their seats, each
face was enveloped in a handkerchief, and there were passionate
embraces, literal pressings to the breast, and violent sobs, as each
victim, one after the other, ascended the carriage steps and fell back
on the seat; while in the background, Honor Callaghan was uttering
Irish wails over the Abbe and Laurence, and the lamentable sound set
the little lap-dog and the big watch-dog howling in chorus. Arthur