"Not so fast, my friend," said the suspicious old follower of Fouche
--"not so fast; it is but right the maire should see you in the disguise
you attempted your escape in. It must be especially mentioned in the
proces verbal."

"Well, this is becoming too ludicrous," said I. "It need not take five
minutes to satisfy you why, how, and where, I put on these confounded
rags--"

"Then tell it to the maire, at the Bureau."

"But for that purpose it is not necessary I should be conducted through
the streets in broad day, to be laughed at. No, positively, I'll not go.
In my own dress I'll accompany you with pleasure."

"Victor, Henri, Guillame," said the gen-d'arme, addressing his
companions, who immediately closed round me. "You see," added he, "there
is no use in resisting."

Need I recount my own shame and ineffable disgrace? Alas! it is too,
too true. Harry Lorrequer--whom Stultze entreated to wear his coats,
the ornament of Hyde Park, the last appeal in dress, fashion, and
equipage--was obliged to parade through the mob of a market-town in
France, with four gens-d'armes for his companions, and he himself habited
in a mongrel character--half postillion, half Delaware Indian. The
incessant yells of laughter--the screams of the children, and the
outpouring of every species of sarcasm and ridicule, at my expense, were
not all--for, as I emerged from the porte-chochere I saw Isabella in the
window: her eyes were red with weeping; but no sooner had she beheld me,
than she broke out into a fit of laughter that was audible even in the