him to saddle Le Blanc; then he awoke his son, a child of seven years, whom he ordered to ride before the gentleman and bring back the horse. Andrea gave the inn-keeper twenty francs, and, in taking them from his pocket, dropped a visiting-card. This belonged to one of his friends at the Café de Paris, so that the inn-keeper, picking it up after Andrea had left, was convinced that he had let his horse to M. le Comte de Mauléon, 25, Rue Saint-Dominique, these being the name and address on the card.
Le Blanc was not a fast animal, but it went evenly and steadily; in three hours and a half Andrea had run over the nine leagues which lie between Compiègne, and four o'clock struck as he reached the place where the diligences stop. There is an excellent hotel at Compiègne, well remembered by those who have once been to it. Andrea, who had often staid there in his rides about Paris, recollected the hotel of the "Bell and Bottle"; he turned round, saw the sign by the light of a reflected lamp, and having dismissed the child, giving him all the small coin he had about him, he began knocking at the door, reflecting, with justice, that, having now three or four hours before him, he had best fortify himself against the fatigues of the morrow by a sound sleep and a good supper. A waiter opened the door.
"My friend," said Andrea, "I have been dining at Saint-Jean-au-Bois, and expected to catch the coach which passes by at midnight, but, like a fool, I have lost my way, and have been walking for the last four hours in the forest. Show me into one of those pretty little rooms which overlook the court, and bring me a cold fowl and a bottle of Bordeaux."
The waiter had no suspicion; Andrea spoke with perfect composure, he had a cigar in his mouth, and his hands in the pocket of his paletôt; his clothes were elegant, his chin smooth, his boots irreproachable; he looked merely as if he had staid out very late, that was all. While the waiter was preparing his room, the hostess rose; Andrea assumed his most charming smile, and asked if he could have No. 3, which he had occupied on his last stay at Compiègne. Unfortunately, No. 3 was engaged by a young man who was traveling with his sister. Andrea appeared in despair, but consoled himself when the hostess assured him that No. 7, prepared for him, was situated precisely the same as No. 3, and while warming his feet and chatting about the last races at Chantilly, he waited until they announced his room to be ready.
Andrea had not spoken without cause of the pretty rooms looking out upon the court of the Bell Hotel, which with its triple stages of galleries, looking like a theater, with its jessamine and clematis twining round the light columns, forms one of the prettiest entrances to an inn you can imagine. The fowl was tender, the wine old, the fire clear and
