the Tennis Court, the signing of
the Declaration of Independence, Mark Antony's oration, all the brave
scenes of history, I conceive as having been not unlike that evening in
the _cafe_ at Chatillon. Terror breathed upon the assembly. A moment
later, when the _Arethusa_ had followed his recaptors into the farther
part of the house, the _Cigarette_ found himself alone with his coffee
in a ring of empty chairs and tables, all the lusty sportsmen huddled
into corners, all their clamorous voices hushed in whispering, all their
eyes shooting at him furtively as at a leper.

And the _Arethusa_? Well, he had a long, sometimes a trying, interview
in the back kitchen. The Marechal-des-logis, who was a very handsome
man, and I believe both intelligent and honest, had no clear opinion on
the case. He thought the Commissary had done wrong, but he did not wish
to get his subordinates into trouble; and he proposed this, that, and
the other, to all of which the _Arethusa_ (with a growing sense of his
position) demurred.

"In short," suggested the _Arethusa_, "you want to wash your hands of
further responsibility? Well, then, let me go to Paris."

The Marechal-des-logis looked at his watch.

"You may leave," said he, "by the ten o'clock train for Paris."

And at noon the next day the travellers were telling their misadventure
in the dining-room at Siron's.

TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY

IN THE CEVENNES

_My dear Sidney Colvin,_

_The journey which this little book is to describe was very agreeable and
fortunate for me. After an uncouth beginning, I had the best of luck to
the end. But we are all travellers in what John Bunyan calls the
wilderness of this world--all, too, travellers with a donkey; and the
best that we find in our travels is an honest friend. He is a fortunate
voyager who finds many. We travel, indeed, to find them. They are the
end and the reward of life. They keep us worthy of ourselves; and when
we are alone, we are only nearer to the absent.

Every book is, in an intimate sense, a circular letter to the friends of
him who writes it. They alone take his meaning; they find private
messages, assurances of love, and expressions of gratitude, dropped for
them in every corner. The public is but a generous patron who defrays
the postage. Yet though the letter is directed to all, we have an old
and kindly custom of addressing it on the outside to one. Of what shall
a man be proud, if he is not proud of his frien