We were both suddenly awakened from a sound sleep in the calÈche by the loud cracking of the postillion's whip, the sounds of street noises, and the increased rattle of the wheels over the unequal pavement. We started up just as, turning round in his saddle and pointing with his long whip to either side of him, the fellow called out—

'Paris, Messieurs, Paris! This is Faubourg St. Denis; there before you lies the Rue St. Denis. Sacristi! the streets are as crowded as at noonday.'

By this time we had rubbed the sleep from our eyelids and looked about us, and truly the scene before us was one to excite all our astonishment. The Quartier St. Denis was then in the occupation of the Austrian troops, who were not only billeted in the houses, but bivouacked in the open streets—their horses picketed in long files along the pavÉ, the men asleep around their watch-fires, or burnishing arms and accoutrements beside them. The white-clad cuirassier from the Danube, the active and sinewy Hungarian, the tall and swarthy Croat were all there, mixed up among groups of peasant girls coming in to market with fowls and eggs. Carts of forage and waggons full of all manner of provisions were surrounded by groups of soldiers and country-people, trading amicably with one another as though the circumstances which had brought them together were among the ordinary events of commerce.

Threading our way slowly through these, we came upon the Jager encampment, their dark-green uniform and brown carbines giving that air of sombre to their appearance so striking after the steel-clad cuirassier and the bright helmets of the dragoons. Farther on, around a fountain, were a body of dismounted dragoons, their tall colbacks and scarlet trousers bespeaking them Polish lancers; their small but beautifully formed white horses pawed the ground, and splashed the water round them, till the dust and foam rose high above them. But the strangest of all were the tall, gigantic figures, who, stretched alongside of their horses, slept in the very middle of the wide street. Lifting their heads lazily for a moment, they gazed on us as we passed, and then lay down again to sleep. Their red beards hung in masses far down upon their breasts, and their loose trousers of a reddish dye but half concealed boots of undressed skin. Their tall lances were piled around them; but these were not wanting to prove that the savage, fierce-looking figures before us were the Cossacks of the Don, thus come for many a hundred mile to avenge the slaughter of Borodino and the burning of Moscow. As we penetrated farther into the city, the mixture of nation and costume became still more remarkable. The erect and soldierlike figure of the Prussian; the loose, wild-eyed Tartar; the brown-clad Russian, with russet beard and curved sabre; the stalwart Highlander, with nodding plume and waving tartan; the Bashkir, with naked scimitar; the gorgeous hussar of Hungary; the tall and manly form of the English guardsman—all passed and repassed before us, adding, by the babel of discordant sound, to the wild confusion of the scene.

It was a strange sight to see the savage soldier from the steppes of Russia, the dark-eyed, heavy-browed Gallician, the yellow-haired Saxon, the rude native of the Caucasus, who had thus given themselves a rendezvous in the very heart of European civilisation, wandering about—now stopping to admire some magnificent palace, now gazing with greedy wonder at the rich display of some jeweller, or the costly and splendid dresses which were exhibited in the shop windows; while here and there were gathered groups of men whose looks of undisguised hate and malignity were bent unceasingly upon the moving mass. Their bourgeois dress could not conceal that they were the old soldiers of the Empire—the men of Wagram, of Austerlitz, of Jena, and of Wilna—who now witnessed within their own capital the awful retribution of their own triumphant aggressions.

As the morning advanced the crowds increased, and as we approached the Place du Carrousel, regiments poured in from every street to the morning parade. Among these the Russian garde—the Bonnets d'or—were conspicuous for the splendour of their costume and the soldierlike precision of their movements, the clash of their brass cymbals and the wild strains of their martial music adding indescribably to their singular appearance. As the infantry drew up in line, we stopped to regard them, when from the Place Louis Quinze the clear notes of a military band rang out a quick step, and the Twenty-eighth British marched in to the air of 'The Young May Moon.' O'Grady's excitement could endure no longer. He jumped up in the calÈche, and, waving his hat above his head, gave a cheer that rang through the long corridor beneath the Louvre. The Irish regiment caught up the cry, and a yell as wild as ever rose above the din of battle shook the air. A Cossack picket then cantering up suddenly halted, and, leaning down upon their horses' manes, seemed to listen; then dashing spurs into their horses' flanks they made the circuit of the Place at full gallop, while their 'Hurra!' burst forth with all the wild vehemence of their savage nature.

'We shall get into some precious scrape with all this,' said O'Grady, as, overcome with laughing, he fell back into the calÈche.

Such was my own opinion; so telling the postillion to turn short into the next street we hurried away unperceived, and drove with all the speed we could muster for the Rue St. HonorÉ. The HÔtel de la Paix fortunately had room for us; and ordering our breakfasts we adjourned to dress, each resolving to make the most of his few hours at Paris.

I had just reached the breakfast-room, and was conning over the morning papers, when O'Grady entered in full uniform, his face radiant with pleasure, and the same easy, jaunty swagger in his walk as on the first day I met him.

'When do you expect to have your audience, Phil?' said I.

'I have had it, my boy. It's all over, finished, completed. Never was anything so successful I talked over the old Adjutant in such a strain, that, instead of dreaming about a court-martial on us, the worthy man is seriously bent on our obtaining compensation for the loss of the drag. He looked somewhat serious as I entered; but when once I made him laugh, the game was my own. I wish you had seen him wiping his dear old eyes as I described the covey of gendarmes taking the air. However, the main point is, the regiment is to be moved up to Paris, the commissaire is to receive a reprimand, our claim for some ten thousand francs is to be considered, and I am to dine with the Adjutant to-day and tell the story after dinner.'

'Do you know, Phil, I have a theory that an Irishman never begins to prosper but just at the moment that any one else would surely be ruined.'

'Don't make a theory of it, Jack, for it may turn out unlucky. But the practice is pretty much what you represent it. Fortune never treats people so well as when they don't care a fig about her. She's exactly like a lady patroness—confoundedly impertinent if you'll bear it, but all smiles if you won't. Have you ever met Tom Burke—“Burke of Ours,” as they call him, I believe, in half the regiments in the service?'

'No, never.'

'Well, the loss is yours. Tom's a fine fellow in his way; and if you could get him to tell you his story—or rather one of his stories, for his life is a succession of them—perhaps you would find that this same theory of yours has some foundation. Well pick him up one of these days, and I'll introduce you. But now, Jack, I have a piece of news for you. What do you think of it, my lad?—Lady Charlotte Hinton 's at Paris.'

'My mother here? Is it possible?'

'Yes. Her ladyship resides No. 4 Place VendÔme, opposite the HÔtel de Londres. There's accuracy for you.'

'And who is with her? My father?'

'No. The General is expected in a few days. Lady Julia, I believe, is her only companion.'

There was a kind of reserve suddenly in O'Grady's manner as he mentioned this name, which made us both pause for a few seconds. At length he broke the awkwardness of the silence by saying, in his usual laughing way—

'I contrived to pick up all the gossip of Paris in half an hour. The town is full of English—and such English too! The Cossacks are civilised people, of quiet, retiring habits, compared to them. I verily believe the French are more frightened by our conviviality than ever they were by the bayonets of the Allies. I'm dying to hear your lady-mother's account of everything here.'

'What say you, then, if you come along with me? I 'm becoming very impatient to see my people once more. Julia will, I 'm certain, be very amusing.'

'Ah, and I have a debt of gratitude in that quarter,' said O'Grady hesitatingly. 'Lady Julia was so very kind as to extend her protection to that old villain Corny. I cannot for the life of me understand how she endured him.'

'As to that,' said I, 'Julia has a taste for character; and not even the Chevalier Delany's eccentricity would pain her. So let's forward.'

'Did I tell you that De Vere is here?' said O'Grady.

'No; not with my friends, I trust?'

'On the contrary, I ascertained that he does not visit at Lady Charlotte's. He is attached to Lord Cathcart's embassy; he's very little in society, and rarely to be seen but at the salon, where he plays tremendously high, loses every night, but reappears each day with a replenished pocket. But I intend to know the secret of all this, and of many other matters, ere long. So now let us proceed.'