Page:The Lady's Book Vol. IX.pdf/206

 THE PARTY OF PLEASURE.

because M. Barbeau alone nearly filled one of the seats. They managed it, however, the children being placed next to their mother and M. Grigou almost con- cealed behind M. Barbeau, to whom he said, “I shall be smothered here;” but the latter replied, “You are in a very good place, only don’t move.”

“Where to, your honour?” said the coachman. At this very unnatural question, the whole party stared at each other, and Madame Barbeau said to her husband, “Well, my dear, where are we to go?”

“The devil take me if I know. Coachman, in what village is there a fete to day?”

“Why, master,” said coachee, “I hardly know.— There's. Tivoli—the Chaumiere”—

“That's not the thing. We want to go into the country, where there is some amusement going on.”

“Ah! that aliers the case. Shall 1 drive you to the Batignolles, or to Father Latulle’s?”

“Oh! we know father Latulle very well. We can get a good dinner there, but it is not far enough out of town.”

“Then I think, sir, that there is a fete at Belle- ville.”

“Very well, drive us to Belleville.”

“But,” said M. Grigou, trying to free himself a little from the immense weight of M. Barbeau, “Belleville is not very rural—it is like one of the faubourgs of Paris. We might do better.”

“Oh! there you are again,” said ){. Barbeau, sharp- ly, “always of a different opinion from any one else. We shall amuse ourselves at Belleville and see the fete. Sit quiet, and don't fidget about as you do.”

The little man said no more; he only made an effort to get one of his hands free, so that he might be able to wipe his face. During the journey, M. Barbeau related the adventures of the friend whom he had met that morning.

He talked on incessantly; for he never suffered his

family to interrupt him. The artist gazed on Leonora, though he seemed attentively listening to her father. As for friend Grigou, he was not always content to be a mere listener; he also loved his story;—but in the

coach he let Barbeau go on. “1 shall have my turn in the fields,” thought he.

They soon reached Belleville, and the coach stop- ped opposite to L’[le-d’Amour.* The party having alighted and discharged the coach, they walked through the principal street of the village, seeking some indi- cations of the fete. But every thing was quiet; not even a gingerbread stall to be seen. Mama walked gravely on, holding by her daughter’s arm; the son had chosen the kennel for his footpath, and was trying to splash himself by way of doing something; the painter was seeking in vain for sume view to sketch; and Grigou was looking all around in an ill-humour, and muttering, “Do they call this country?”

On a sudden M. Barbeau stopped. “Here,” said he, have we been, for the last quarter of an hour, walking about like fools. Pray are any of you amused?”

“Certainly I am not.”

“Nor J.”

“Nor I.”

“The Cuachman is an ass; there is no fete here. — But we are not obliged to remain. Let us go beyond the village, and get into the Bois de Romainville. The fete is perhaps there.”

“Romainville!—I don’t like that wood,” said M. Grigou. “Once, in endeavouring to get some chest- nuts”

“Come, come, Grigou,” interrupted M. Barbeau,— “you are never of the same mind as other people. You must be complaisant in company. You always want to have your own way; it is quite ridiculous.—


 * A little island in the Seine. ¢

Now, I think, on the contrary, that—we’ll go to Ro- mainville, that’s positive.”

Afier passing through Belleville, they crossed the park of Saint-Fargeau, and the wgod appeared in sight. At all events, they were now in the country.

“Look, papa! there’s a donkey,” cried young hopeful.

“Would you like to ride upon one?”

“Oh, yes, papa.”

“Then we will hire some donkeys, and have a ride. We must amuse ourselves in the country. Nora, my girl, you shall ride one too, and so shall you my love.”

“Are you mad?”

“What, would you rather have a horse? if so, I will get a pony for you.” 4

“] will ride neither horse nor ass. [ should be sure to fall off—I never was on horseback in my life!”

“Grigou, you shall have a horse.”

“Not I; I have not been on horseback since” ——

“Stop, I have it—no matter—I will hire horses and donkeys for the whole party.”

M. Barbeau soon procured two animals of either species, had them saddled and bridled, and made his son and daughter mount the donkeys. In vain did M. Grigou attempt resistance. His friend put him on horseback by main force, mounted the other charger himself, and the whole cavalcade set out, followed by Madame Barbeau, whose feet were al- ready sore, and by the artist, who wanted to make a sketch. The two horsemen soon entered the wood and were out of sight of the donkeys. On coming to a hill, M. Barbeau determined to trot down it, and force M. Grigou to do the same; but the horse of the latter having stumbled, the poor little man was tilted over its head.

“IT was sure this would happen,” cried Grigou, in a doleful voice, groaning, and rubbing the part which had, according to the law of gravitation, reached the ground first.

“What is the matter?” said M. Barbeau, returning.

“Why, don’t you see? I have had a fall.”

“It is because you are a bad rider.”

“You are the cause of it, however.”

“Come, come, you are not hurt;—there is no harm done. You must not mind trifles. We must enjoy ourselves when we are in the country. Let us join the rest of the party.”

“With all my heart. But you will not catch me on horseback again. I will lead my horse.”

« Ah, you coward!”

As they turned towards the entrance of the wood, they perceived an ass with a side-saddle on, rolling in the sand, after having thrown its rider. A little further on lay a female on the ground, whose face was con- cealed. bd

“Oh, how charming!” exclaimed M. Barbeau— “Look here, Grigou; what a pity Bellefeuille is not here. What a pretty picture that would make!”

Grigou stepped, and took out his spectacles, the better to examine the picture; but before he could put them on, Madame Barbeau ran from the opposite direction, and hastily endeavoured to raise the fallen rider, in whose countenance M. Barbeau then recog- nized that of his daughter. He did not now think the picture would be quite so pretty; but alighting, ran to his wife, who seemed in great tribulation at the ac- cident.

“What is the matter?”

“Leonora has had a fall. The horrible donkey wanted to lie down.”

“T know all that. Art hurt, girl?”

“Oh, no, papa.”

“Then let’s think no more about it.”

“Let’s think no more about it! that is easily said,” muttered the young lady’s mamma; “but Leonora has fallen in a very serious manner, and she”——