you talking about?"

"Nothing; only that I shall see you at Lyons, whither you are returning:—but when?"

"I shall be there on Monday week."

"And so shall I; and I will come and dine with you: we will arrange this matter over our glasses. But, at all events, you will take the lad if I am answerable for him; do not make me break my word."

"No, no; the thing is settled; good bye till Monday week;" and they parted.

"But Gervais must be told," said Michael, trembling with joy.

"Go, then, and make haste back; tell him to be at Lyons by Monday week, if possible; but, above all, he must take care that the old toad knows nothing about it." This was his usual epithet for La Mauricaude. Michael departed, and Va-bon-train went to a neighbouring tavern, into which he had seen Matthew and his company enter. The price of a pair of stockings worth fifty sous, which had been stolen from a shop at the fair, and sold a quarter-of-an-hour afterwards for twenty, served to defray the expenses of the party; and Matthew, owing to the cheapness of the wine that season, was just on the verge of intoxication, when Va-bon-train, coming up, said to him, "Matthew, there is but one word between you and me: when I go one way, you must take care and go the other; if you don't, your old toad and her young one will every morning get for their breakfast a sound dressing from this whip."

"As for me, Vincent, I am an honest man," stammered Matthew. La Mauricaude was about to vociferate; and the host took part with his customer.

"Friend," said Va-bon-train, "when you settle your account with that hussey, I will not interfere; but look well to the money she gives you:" and he walked out. As soon as he was gone, La Mauricaude poured forth a torrent of abuse. Those of her neighbours whose hearts began to be warmed and their wits clouded by the wine they had taken, agreed unanimously, that to come and insult in that manner respectable people, who were quietly taking their glass, without interfering with any one, was a thing not to be borne: and Matthew again repeated, "As for me, I am an honest man." The rest, as they looked at La Mauricaude and her son, made some reflections on Va-bon-train's speech, and the host thought it high time to demand payment. This completed the ill-humour of La Mauricaude.

As for Michael, he had hastened to Gervais, and delivered his message. A sudden flush of surprise and joy suffused the countenance of the latter, on learning that his uncle would be answerable for him; and when the voice of Va-bon-train was heard calling his son, the two friends pressed each other's hands, and parted, each cherishing the thought of the happiness which was about to dawn for both of them.

All was quiet at the inn where Va-bon-train had taken up his abode for the night, when, awaking from his first sleep, he thought he heard Medor in the yard, groaning, and very uneasy. He went down stairs, and was surprised to find him tied by a cord to a tree that was near the cart, and so short that he could scarcely move. As he was accustomed to allow Medor his liberty at night, feeling quite sure that he would make use of it only to defend more effectually his master's property, he concluded that some one had thought to render him a service, by tying up the dog for fear of his escaping; for in the darkness he had not perceived that the other end of the cord which attached Medor to the tree, had been passed round his nose, so as to form a kind of muzzle. Eager to liberate the poor animal, he cut the cord, which was fastened round his neck by a slip knot, and which, but for the intervention of his collar, must have strangled him. The cord once cut, the knot gave way, and, by the aid of his fore paws, Medor was soon freed from his ignoble fetters. No sooner had he regained his liberty, than he began to scent with avidity all round the yard, moaning the whole time; then he dashed against the stable door as if he would break it in. His master, astonished, opened it for him, supposing, from what he knew of his instinct, that some suspicious person might be concealed there; but Medor was contented with running across the stable, still scenting, to the opposite door, which led into the street, and which, by the means of this stable, formed one of the entrances to the inn. His master called him, he came back with reluctance, and, still moaning, laid down at his feet, as if to solicit a favour; then he ran to the vehicle, again returned, and rushed with greater violence against the first door, which his master had in the mean time closed. Astonished at these manœuvres, Va-bon-train went to his cart; but everything was in order, the trunk locked, and nothing apparently to justify the dog's agitation. Then, presuming that Medor, notwithstanding his good sense, was, like all dogs and all children, impatient to set out on his journey, and had been seized with this fancy rather earlier than usual, he gave him a cut with his whip, sent him back to the cart, and returned to bed.

The next morning, when he went down, he called Medor, but no Medor answered. He sought for him everywhere, but without success; he then recollected what had taken place during the night, and feared that some one had stolen him.

"Was he there," demanded one of the travellers, "when you went down in the night to take something from your cart?" Va-bon-train declared that he had taken nothing from his cart.

"The heat was insufferable," continued the man, "and we had the window open. One of the workmen from the forge, who slept in my room, said: 'See, there is some one meddling with the box belonging to the exhibitor of the Marionettes.' 'His dog does not growl,' said I, 'so it must be the man himself. Never mind, friend; let us sleep.'"

Va-bon-train hastened to his box, which was still locked; he opened it, and found everything in disorder: Scaramouche had disappeared, as well as a dozen of Madras handkerchiefs, the remains of a lot purchased at the fair of Beaucaire, and the greater part of which had been sold on his journey. Who could have done this? Va-bon-train remembered having found a key upon the road, a few days after he had associated himself with Matthew, and which fitted his trunk. He lost it again the next day, but had not troubled himself about it. Now he guessed into whose hands it had fallen, and felt assured that Medor would not have allowed himself to be approached and led away by any one but an acquaintance.

"That boy who was at work close by, at the blacksmith's," said the landlord of the inn, "did he not come in here, and give the dog some drink?"

"He who came with the woman and the ass?" said the hostess. "He seemed to be a respectable lad."

"You may think so," replied a neighbour; "but when I saw him enter the stable yonder, after dark, I said to Cateau, What is that little vagabond going to do there?"

"Gervais!" exclaimed Michael.

"Yes," said the landlord, "he was called Gervais at the blacksmith's." The flush of anger mounted to the face of Va-bon-train. The idea of having been duped was added to the annoyance of his loss, and he swore that he would never again be caught overcoming a prejudice. A less hasty disposition would have examined whether the innkeeper and the neighbour were not speaking of different persons, and whether suspicion ought not more naturally to fall upon Thomas and La Mauricaude. But the woman whose explanations would have thrown light upon the subject had gone home, and among those who remained there was no one who had seen them, or, at all events, who would acknowledge to have done so; for where there is not some falsehood to complicate matters, it is rare that truth does not break out, so great is its tendency to manifest itself.

La Mauricaude, who was never so