great a personage, and he uttered a profusion of apologies for the freedom he had used in the intercourse. The Duke dismissed him very graciously, and M. Placquet proceeded to write to his distant and much-beloved Justine.
In a few days M. Placquet received an answer from Justine, not by post, but through the agency of that young lady’s venerable grandpapa, and who had journeyed expressly from Paris to assure Auguste (M. Placquet) that he could do as he pleased for their mutual advantage.
A meeting was arranged, and the Duke and M. Placquet were alone. Five hundred golden louis jingled in the pocket of M. Placquet, in exchange for poor little Justine’s ten-franc purchase.
“Here is the little box they gave me with it,” said M. Placquet, taking the ring from the table, and pressing it fondly, very fondly, to his lips, and then placing it in the little casket, which he returned open to the Duke.
The Duke closed it, and put it into his pocket. M. Placquet was evidently much moved by his good fortune, and the Duke, observing it, very soon released him from his presence.
The same night M. Placquet and the venerable grandpapa of poor little Justine left B B. The next morning the Duke of invited the Princess of A., the Countess of B., and the Margrave of C. to inspect his new purchase. When it was produced the Duke could scarcely believe his eyes; the ring was the same in size and in setting, but it was changed, changed to paste, and might have been bought in Paris anywhere for ten francs! The Duke demanded M. Placquet to be sent for. M. Placquet, as we have said before, had left the night preceding with the Duke’s five hundred golden louis jingling in his pocket, accompanied by the venerable grandpapa of poor little Justine. Yes, the swindle was plain enough. M. Placquet and his confederates had heard of the Duke’s passion for diamonds, and had clubbed together to purchase one of great beauty. This the Duke saw, examined, and purchased; but Justine’s venerable grandpapa had travelled malle poste from Paris with an exact imitation of the same diamond which M. Placquet sold the Duke, and the pretended futur exchanged it over the parting kiss which he so lovingly bestowed upon it. No one pitied the Duke, he was so unpopular; but no one laughed at him to his face, he was so vindictive.
L.
KNOCKING DOWN AN OLD FRIEND.
Travelling, as I often do, upon the Hastings branch of the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway, the question has more than once been asked by my fellow passengers, “Pray, sir, what are those round things.” I reply, not without a glance of indignation, and a conscious pride of proprietorship in the fortifications of my native county, “Sir, those round things are Martello towers.”
Then ensues a perfect deluge of questions, and I have to submit to a fierce cross-examination as to—Who was Martello? When did he build those towers? Why did he build them? How did he build them? What are they made of? What are they now used for? How many shots from an Armstrong gun would it take to knock one of them to pieces? And so on.
Now it is almost impossible for any person who is not a native of the county of Sussex, to imagine how irritating such queries as these are to those, who, albeit they may regard these stout little forts as a necessary part and ornament of their home landscape, if not an important item in the efficient defences of their coast, yet are compelled to listen with such patience as they may, to the numerous, and apparently unpardonable, mistakes which arise in the minds of strangers who view them for the first time.
For instance, when I was once pointing out with some pride to an elderly lady the view from our dining-room window, which commands the noble sweep of Pevensey bay in the far distance, dotted with its numerous tiny forts at regular intervals, and said, “And there, beyond, you see the sea, don’t you, Mrs. Malaprop?”
“The sea, my dear, where?” she replied. “Oh, is that the sea? Yes, yes, I see it now—quite plainly, too. Why I do believe that I can see—yes, to be sure I can—I can see the bathing-machines.”
Bathing-machines, indeed! Bathing-machines? Why those are coast-defences—solid towers with walls nine feet thick towards the sea, and six on the land side. I had all the measurements by heart, you see; and well I might, for had I not gone to bed every night of my boyhood’s life, and slept in the conscious safety of a line of impregnable forts which no enemy could ever approach, no Frenchman ever pass? Had not a Martello tower defied the efforts of the English Engineers in the Peninsular war? And was it likely that any foreign foe could encompass their destruction on British soil?
And then, of course, I enter at considerable length into their history. I relate, with graphic description, how those snug little towers were “instituted in the time of man’s innocency;” that is to say, somewhere about the year 1813, when a certain troublesome neighbour of ours across the water was supposed to be desirous of anticipating Waterloo by invading the sacred and perfidious shores of Albion.
I proudly point to the result. I remind Mrs. M. that Waterloo was not anticipated—that the sacred and perfidious shores of Albion are still intact—that Britons never shall be slaves—that the flag will still continue triumphantly to brave a thousand inconveniences—that Waterloo can never be avenged in this direction, at least so long as our coast shall bristle with artillery mounted upon those impregnable—bathing-machines, as she calls them.
Yes, whatever opinions may elsewhere prevail upon the subject, there is no doubt whatever in the mind which has been illuminated by the nurture of the downs and marshes of eastern Sussex, of the complete efficiency of that form of resistance known as a Martello tower. You may be sure, therefore, that when I heard, a few weeks ago, that some private experiments were to be made against one of my old friends with an Armstrong gun, I made up my mind to be present