he: “how admirably the land is cultivated! what care, what labor, is bestowed on it! My father was right: civilization has not penetrated into the departments of the interior. Fifteen hours ago, I left the Capelette. What a difference! Why is the soil so fertile here and so sterile with us? The soil is the same, but the cultivation is not. Here there are no immense forests, no uncultivated fields: the country is as populous as our cities. Laborers abound, and agricultural implements are brought to the highest state of perfection. What abundance! what riches! Everybody seems to be happy and contented. How beautiful and grand all this is!”

At the moment he made these reflections, the train began to slacken its speed. They approached a station. Eusebe watched attentively the groups of people who were waiting behind a barrier for the train to pass, in order that they might, in their turn, pass also. The noise of the locomotive frightened a cart-horse tied to a post near by. The poor animal, trembling with fear, snorted and reared up on his hind legs, when a man, armed with a whip, came out of an inn and began to strike the beast with all his might. The more he struck, the more the horse reared and pranced. Finally, breaking his halter, the animal sprang furiously against the barrier, which he struck with his head and fell dead. The man cursed like a carter, which he was.

“Surely,” said Eusebe to himself, “this is a very bad business. The fault is the man’s, and not the beast’s. If the man had not left the horse, the horse would not have been frightened. If the horse had not been frightened, the man would not have struck him; and if the man had not struck the horse, the animal would not be dead. This man is perhaps a savage, recently arrived among civilized people. That, however, I think scarcely probable, since he speaks with tolerable correctness. Is my father right in saying that extremes touch, and that the last word of civilization is perhaps the first of barbarism?”

Eusebe had arrived at this point in his reflections, when two travellers entered the coupé he occupied. Although it was still early in September, the two new-comers wore fur caps and overshoes and thick woollen cloaks, while their faces were half concealed by immense woollen comforters.

“Upon my word,” said one of them, “the winter is already setting in: this northwest wind is any thing but agreeable. What do you say to taking a puff? It will give us an appetite.”

On hearing these words, Eusebe was a prey to the most lively curiosity. The singular costume of his travelling-companions made him suspect he had in them two subjects for study, coming from some distant clime. To judge from their furs, they must have first seen the light at Moscow. On hearing them talk about “taking a puff,” he expected to see something new and extraordinary, and prepared himself to be all eyes and ears, in order to become acquainted with the customs of the strangers whom chance had thrown in his way.

To the great disappointment of the young man, the traveller took some cigars out of his pocket and lighted one, after having offered them to his companion and then to Eusebe, who had refused.

“You do not smoke, young man?”

“No, sir.”

“Bah! How old are you, then?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Twenty-one years old, and you do not smoke! Where the devil do you come from, my young friend?”

“I come from the Capelette, a domain near Saint-Brice, in Limousin; I am going to Paris to see the world; and I cannot be your friend, since I never met you until this morning.”

“Do not get angry, young man. It was not my intention to be rude.”

“I know that,” said Eusebe. “On the contrary, you offered me your rolls of tobacco, for which I am obliged.”

“Ah! you are from Monsieur de Pourceaugnac’s neighborhood,” said the other, who until now had remained silent.

“I do not know the gentleman,” replied Eusebe: “my father and I live a very retired life.”

“Naïve, upon my word!” cried the smoker. “He ought to be framed. What, young man! you do not know the gayest of Molière’s heroes?”

“I have never been away from the Capelette, sir, and my condition does not allow me to become acquainted with heroes. I do not even know where Molière is situated.”

The two travellers burst into a hearty laugh.

“Gentlemen,” said Eusebe, when the hilarity of his neighbors had ceased, “you amuse yourselves at my expense, because I am ignorant, which, I think, is any thing but kind of you. You indiscreetly questioned me; I answered: I might have remained silent. Recollect, I beg of you, that you meddled with my affairs, and that I have not concerned myself about yours. I have not asked you whence you come, where you are going, or who you are. When you laughed at me, I might have thrown you out of the window; but I did not do it, and you ought to be thankful.”

“Out of the window! Not so fast, my dear sir.”

“I could certainly have done it,” said Eusebe, with simplicity.

“Pardon me,” said the second traveller. “We do not wish to make ourselves disagreeable. You are too quick to take offence. I am in the habit of travelling a great deal. During the last ten years, my friend and I have been almost always en route. Whenever we find ourselves in company, we ask how it happens, where our companions come from, and where they are going. That helps to while away the time, and injures no one.”

“And is that all you travel for?” asked Eusebe.

“What an idea! We are travelling clerks: we represent two of the first houses in Paris.”

“However great my simplicity may be,” replied Eusebe, “I think there are no first houses in Paris, and, what is more, that there can be none, since the first on arriving from the north are the last when one comes from the south.”

They arrived at Paris, and Martin, junior, got out of the car.

With his valise in his hand, Eusebe stepped out of the depot, when a cabman cried out to him,—

“Here you are, sir! Where shall I drive you to, sir?”

“I don’t know,” replied Eusebe.

“It’s not me that’ll tell you, then.”

“I have not asked you.”

“Eh! do you hear that? Here is a gentleman that don’t know where he is going.”

“Mind your own business.”

“Bah! you lubber! you haven’t a sou.”

The provincial was about to reply, when the cabman, to whom a traveller had just made a sign, hurried away.

“These people do not seem to be very familiar with the laws of hospitality,” thought Eusebe: “they call you to insult you. What does all this mean?”

CHAPTER IV.

Paris is the dream of all provincialists. Rich and poor want to come here, at least once,—the first to enjoy life, the second to try to make their fortunes. No one can imagine the disappointment of these visitors, since each one has had his own peculiar ideas of the metropolis. For some, Paris is an immense succession of palaces; for others, the houses are built of gold and precious stones.

Paris never comes up to the ideas strangers have formed of it. In order to love and admire this great city, one must become acquainted with it. The inhabitants of the South, particularly, are greatly disappointed on arriving at the capital. Their imagination, more lively than that of the people of the North, embellishes the metropolis in a thousand different