"Criqueboeuf doesn't exactly hide its light under a bushel, you know,
although it doesn't crown a hill. No end of people know it; it sits for
its portrait, I should say at least twice a week regularly, on an
average, during the season. English water-colorists go mad over
it--they cross over on purpose to `do' it, and they do it extremely
badly, as a rule."

This was Renard's last comment of a biographical and critical nature,
concerning the "historical monument," as we reseated ourselves to
pursue our way to P----.

"Why don't you show them how it can be done?"

"Would," coolly returned Renard, "if it were worth while, but it isn't
in my line. Henri, did you bring any ice?"

Henri, I had noticed, when we had reseated ourselves in the cart, had
greeted us with an air of silent sadness; he clearly had not approved
of ruins that interfered with the business of the day.

"_Oui, monsieur_, I did bring some ice, but as monsieur can imagine to
himself--a two hours' sun--"

"Nonsense, this sun wouldn't melt a pat of butter; the ice is all
right, and so is the wine."

Then he continued in English: "Now, ladies, as I should begin if I were
a politician, or an auctioneer; now, ladies, the time for confession
has arrived; I can no longer conceal from you my burglarious scheme. In