It was a small tribute, I told her, which I could not avoid paying to virtue, and would not be mistaken in the person I had been rendering it to for the world—but I see innocence, my dear, in your face—and foul befal the man who ever lays a snare in its way!

The girl seem’d affected some way or other with what I said—she gave a low sigh—I found I was not impowered to inquire at all after it—so said nothing till I got to the corner of the Rue de Nevers, where we were to part.

—But is this the way, my dear, said I, to the hôtel de Modene? she told me it was—or, that I might go by the Rue de Gueneguault, which was the next turn—Then I’ll go, my dear, by the Rue de Gueneguault, said I, for two reasons; first, I shall please myself; and next, I shall give you the protection of my company as far on your way as I can. The girl was sensible I was civil,—and said, she wish’d the hôtel de Modene was in the Rue de St. Pierre—You live there? said I.—She told me she was fille de chambre to Madame R****—Good God! said I, ’tis the very lady for whom I have brought a letter from Amiens—The girl told me that Madame R****, she believed, expected a stranger with a letter and was impatient to see him—so I desired the girl to present my compliments to Madame R**** and say, I would certainly wait upon her in the morning.

We stood still at the corner of the Rue de Nevers whilst this pass’d—We then stopp’d a moment whilst she disposed of her Egarements de Cœur, &c. more commodiously than carrying them in her hand—they were two volumes; so I held the second for her whilst she put the first into her pocket; and then she held her pocket, and I put in the other after it.

’Tis sweet to feel by what fine-spun threads our affections are drawn together.

We set off afresh, and as she took her third step, the girl put her hand within my arm—I was just bidding her—but she did it of herself with that undeliberating simplicity, which shew’d it was out of her head that she had never seen me before. For my own part, I felt the conviction of consanguinity so strongly, that I could not help turning half round to look in her face, and see if I could trace out any thing in it of a family likeness—Tut! said I, are we not all relations?

When we arrived at the turning up of the Rue de Gueneguault, I stopp’d to bid her adieu for good and all: the girl would thank me again for my company and kindness—She bid me adieu twice—I repeated it as often; and so cordial was the parting between us, that had it happen’d any where else, I’m not sure but I should have signed it with a kiss of charity, as warm and holy as an apostle.

But in Paris, as none kiss each other but the men—I did what amounted to the same thing—

—I bid God bless her.

The Passport


When I got home to my hôtel, La Fleur told me I had been enquired after by the Lieutenant de Police—The duce take it! said I—I know the reason. It is time the reader should know it, for in the order of things in which it happened, it was omitted; not that it was out of my head; but that, had I told it then, it might have been forgot now—and now is the time I want it.

I had left London with so much precipitation, that it never enter’d my mind that we were at war with France: and had reach’d Dover, and look’d through my glass at the hills beyond Boulogne, before the idea presented itself; and with this in its train, that there was no getting there without a passport. Go but to the end of a street, I have a mortal aversion for returning back no wiser than I set out; and as this was one of the greatest efforts I had ever made for knowledge, I could less bear the thoughts of it: so hearing the Count de **** had hired the packet, I begg’d he would take me in his suite. The Count had some little knowledge

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