courage lifted up and strengthened by open commendation; of no use to except to the mysterious female,—to picture her as rearing a thin-blooded generation on selfish and mechanically repeated axioms,—all this failed to counteract the monotonous repetition of this sentence. There was nothing to do but to give in,—and I was about to accept it weakly, as we too often treat other illusions of darkness and necessity, for the time being,—when I became aware of some other annoyance that had been forcing itself upon me for the last few moments. How quiet the driver was!
Was there any driver? Had I any reason to suppose that he was not lying, gagged and bound on the roadside, and the highwayman, with blackened face who did the thing so quietly, driving me—whither? The thing is perfectly feasible. And what is this fancy now being jolted out of me. A story? It's of no use to keep it back,—particularly in this abysmal vehicle, and here it comes: I am a Marquis,—a French Marquis; French, because the peerage is not so well known, and the country is better adapted to romantic incident,—a Marquis, because the democratic reader delights in the nobility. My name is something ligny. I arn coming from Paris to my country-seat at St. Germain. It is a dark night, and I fall asleep and tell my honest coachman, André, not to disturb me, and dream of an angel. The carriage at last stops
