ry myself. M. Noel, very dark skinned,
with mutton-chop whiskers, and dressed in a black coat, came forward to
meet us.

"Welcome, Monsieur Passajon," he said; and taking my cap with silver
ornaments, which, as I entered the room, I held in my right hand
according to custom, he handed it to an enormous negro in red and gold
livery.

"Here, Lakdar, take this--and this," he said, by way of jest, giving
him a kick in a certain portion of the back.

There was much laughter at that sally, and we began to converse most
amicably. An excellent fellow, that M. Noel, with his Southern accent,
his determined bearing, the frankness and simplicity of his manners. He
reminded me of the Nabob, minus his master's distinguished mien,
however. Indeed, I noticed that evening that such resemblances are of
common occurrence in valets de chambre, who, as they live on intimate
terms with their masters, by whom they are always a little dazzled, end
by adopting their peculiarities and their mannerisms. For instance, M.
Francis has a certain habit of drawing himself up and displaying his
linen shirtfront, a mania for raising his arms to pull down his cuffs,
which is Monpavon to the life. But there is one who does not resemble
his master in the least, that is Joe, Dr. Jenkins' coachman. I call him
Joe, but at the party everybody called him Jenkins; for in that circle
the stable folk among themselves call one another by their employers'
names, plain Bois-l'Hery, Monpavon and Jenkins. Is it to debase the
superiors, to exalt the servant class? Every country has its customs;
nobody but a fool ought to be astonished by them. To return to Joe
Jenkins--how can the doctor, who is such an amiable man, so perfect in
every respect, keep in his service that _gin_ and _porter_-soaked
brute, who sits silent for hours at a time, and then, the instant that
the liquor goes to his head, begins to roar and wants to box
everybody--witness the scandalous scene that had just taken place when
we arrived.

The marquis's little tiger, Tom Bois-l'Hery, as they call him here,
undertook to joke with that Irish beast, who--at some Parisian gamin's
jest--retorted by a terrible Belfast knock-down blow in the middle of
the face.

"Come on, Humpty-Dumpty! Come on, Humpty-Dumpty!" roared the coachman,
choking with rage, while they carried his innocent victim into the
adjoining room, where the ladies, young and old, were engaged in
bandaging his nose. The excitement was soo