and the Cher, and lighted one of the gayest dining-rooms of
that gay land.

"Is this Monsieur Vernier himself?" said the traveller, bending his
vertebral column with such grace that it seemed to be elastic.

"Yes, Monsieur," said the mischievous ex-dyer, with a scrutinizing look
which took in the style of man he had to deal with.

"I come, Monsieur," resumed Gaudissart, "to solicit the aid of your
knowledge and insight to guide my efforts in this district, where
Mitouflet tells me you have the greatest influence. Monsieur, I am sent
into the provinces on an enterprise of the utmost importance, undertaken
by bankers who--"

"Who mean to win our tricks," said Vernier, long used to the ways of
commercial travellers and to their periodical visits.

"Precisely," replied Gaudissart, with native impudence. "But with your
fine tact, Monsieur, you must be aware that we can't win tricks from
people unless it is their interest to play at cards. I beg you not to
confound me with the vulgar herd of travellers who succeed by humbug
or importunity. I am no longer a commercial traveller. I was one, and I
glory in it; but to-day my mission is of higher importance, and should
place me, in the minds of superior people, among those who devote
themselves to the enlightenment of their country. The most distinguished
bankers in Paris take part in this affair; not fictitiously, as in some
shameful speculations which I call rat-traps. No, no, nothing of the
kind! I should never condescend--never!--to hawk about such CATCH-FOOLS.
No, Monsieur; the most respectable houses in Paris are concerned in this
enterprise; and their interests guarantee--"

Hereupon Gaudissart drew forth his whole string of phrases, and Monsieur
Vernier let him go the length of his tether, listening with apparent
interest which completely deceived him. But after the word "guarantee"
Vernier paid no further attention to our traveller's rhetoric, and
turned over in his mind how to play him some malicious trick and deliver
a land, justly considered half-savage by speculators unable to get a
bite of it, from the inroads of these Parisian caterpillars.

At the head of an enchanting valley, called the Valley Coquette because
of its windings and the curves which return upon each other at every
step, and seem more and more lovely as we advance, whether we ascend or
descend them, there lived, in a little house surrounded by vineyards, a
half-insane man named Margaritis. He w