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 is no date in my diary which tells me exactly when we arrived in Brittany; but I shall not be far wrong if I set it down as the month of March, and, to be particular, rather late than early, in a week when there was spring in the air, and the smell of the country was like new wine to a man. I can remember well that there were many to chaff us for leaving Paris at such a season; and, so far as that goes, it was a queer sort of journey to make just when the town was full of life, and most folks were coming in from the provinces. But Sir Nicolas was hit again, and like many a one before his day, and many a one to come after, time and season were nothing when laid against a woman's pretty face. He would have gone to the other end of the world for Mme. Pauline—aye, I believe he would go now, if it were in his power.

I have seen women enough in my time,—and a man's no worse judge of a pretty girl because fortune compels him to look at her through an attic window,—but this I will say, that a finer creature than the mistress of the Château de l'Épée never drew breath. We had met her first in the Vienna express on our