first night he was back from Trouville. "What's to become of me, Hildebrand—me that was born a gentleman? Is it in a garret you'd see me die? I haven't fifty pounds in the world, as the Lord is my witness."
"Now, don't you think of that, sir," said I. "You're not the man to die in any garret. Have a little patience, and we shall hear of something. Luck's never failed us yet, and it's not going to now."
"That's what you're always telling me," he wailed. "Luck—what's luck done for me? Is it lucky I am to have no friend in the world? The devil take such luck!"
I put him to bed—we were then staying in the Hôtel de Lille, over on the south side of the river, which corresponds to our London Surrey side—and next morning he slept late. It had been arranged that he and Mr. Ames should breakfast together in the hotel, and then go for a day down to Fontainebleau—à la campagne, as the French call it. I had called him at nine o'clock, but it was ten o'clock before he got up; and while he was dressing, the waiter brought up one of the funniest parcels 1 have ever seen. It was very small, very neat, done up in very bright blue paper; but more strange than any thing else was its weight, which was extraordinary for such a little thing.
"It seems to me, sir," said I, "that somebody has been making you a present of a few bullets. I never handled any thing like that in my life."
