Captain Ryecroft takes a through ticket for Paris, without thought of breaking journey, and in due time reaches Boulogne. Glad to get out of the detestable packet, little better than a ferry-boat, which plies between Folkestone and the French seaport, he loses not a moment in scaling the equally detestable gang-ladder by which alone he can escape.

Having set foot upon French soil, represented by a rough cobble-stone pavement, he bethinks of passport and luggage—how he will get the former vised and the latter looked after with the least trouble to himself. It is not his first visit to France, nor is he unacquainted with that country's customs; therefore knows that a "tip" to sergent de ville or douanier will clear away the obstructions in the shortest possible time—quicker if it be a handsome one. Feeling in his pockets for a florin or a half-crown, he is accosted by a voice familiar and of friendly tone.

"Captain Ryecroft!" it exclaims, in a rich, rolling brogue, as of Galway. "Is it yourself? By the powers of Moll Kelly, and it is."

"Major Mahon!"

"The same, old boy. Give us a grip of your fist, as on that night when you pulled me out of the ditch at Delhi, just in time to clear the bayonets of the pandys. A nate thing, and a close shave, wasn't it? But what's brought you to Boulogne?"

The question takes the traveller aback. He is not prepared to explain the nature of his journey, and with a view to evasion he simply points to the steamer, out of which the passengers are still swarming.

"Come, old comrade!" protests the Major, good-naturedly, "that won't do; it isn't satisfactory for bosom friends, as we've been, and still are, I trust. But, maybe, I make too free, asking your business in Boulogne?"

"Not at all, Mahon. I have no business in Boulogne; I'm on the way to Paris."

"Oh! a pleasure trip, I suppose?"

"Nothing of the kind. There's no pleasure for me in Paris or anywhere else."

"Aha!" ejaculated the Major, struck by the words, and their despondent tone, "what's this, old fellow? Something wrong?"

"Oh, not much—never mind."

The reply is little satisfactory. But seeing that further allusion to private matters might not be agreeable, the Major continues, apologetically—

"Pardon me, Ryecroft. I've no wish to be inquisitive, but you have given me reason to think you out of sorts, somehow. It isn't your fashion to be low-spirited, and you shan't be so long as you're in my company—if I can help it."

"It's very kind of you, Mahon; and for the short time I'm to be with you, I'll do the best I can to be cheerful. It shouldn't be a great effort. I suppose the train will be starting in a few minutes?"

"What train?"

"For Paris."

"You're not going to Paris now—not this night?"

"I am, straight on."

"Neither straight nor crooked, ma bohil!"

"I must."

"Why must you? If you don't expect pleasure there, for what should you be in such haste to reach it? Bother, Ryecroft! you'll break your journey here, and stay a few days with me? I can promise you some little amusement. Boulogne isn't such a dull place just now. The smash of Agra & Masterman's, with Overend & Gurney following suit, has sent hither a host of old Indians, both soldiers and civilians. No doubt you'll find many friends among them. There are lots of pretty girls, too—I don't mean natives, but our countrywomen—to whom I'll have much pleasure in presenting you."

"Not for the world, Mahon—not one! I have no desire to extend my acquaintance in that way."

"What, turned hater! women too. Well, leaving the fair sex on one side, there's half a dozen of the other here—good fellows as ever stretched legs on mahogany. They're strangers to you, I think; but will be delighted to know you, and do their best to make Boulogne agreeable. Come, old boy. You'll stay? Say the word."

"I would, Major, and with pleasure, were it any other time. But, I confess, just now I'm not in the mood for making new acquaintance—least of all among my countrymen. To tell the truth, I'm going to Paris chiefly with a view of avoiding them."

"Nonsense! You're not the man to turn solitaire, like Simon Stylites, and spend the rest of your days on the top of a stone pillar! Besides, Paris is not the place for that sort of thing. If you're really determined on keeping out of company for awhile—I won't ask why—remain with me, and we'll take strolls along the sea-beach, pick up pebbles, gather shells, and make love to mermaids, or the Boulognese fish-fags, if you prefer it. Come, Ryecroft, don't deny me. It's so long since we've had a day together, I'm dying to talk over old times—recall our camaraderie in India."

For the first time in forty-eight hours Captain Ryecroft's countenance shows an indication of cheerfulness—almost to a smile, as he listens to the rattle of his jovial friend, all the pleasanter from its patois recalling childhood's happy days. And as some prospect of distraction from his sad thoughts—if not a restoration of happiness—is held out by the kindly invitation, he is half inclined to accept it. What difference whether he find the grave of his griefs in Paris or Boulogne—if find it he can?

"I'm booked to Paris," he says mechanically, and as if speaking to himself.

"Have you a through ticket?" asks the Major, in an odd way.

"Of course I have."

"Let me have a squint at it?" further questions the other, holding out his hand.

"Certainly. Why do you wish that?"

"To see if it will allow you to shunt yourself here."

"I don't think it will. In fact, I know it don't. They told me so at Charing Cross."

"Then they told you what wasn't true; for it does. See here!"

What the Major calls upon him to look at are some bits of pasteboard, like butterflies, fluttering in the air, and settling down over the copestone of the dock. They are the fragments of the torn ticket.

"Now, old boy! you're booked for Boulogne."

The melancholy smile, up to that time on Ryecroft's face, broadens into a laugh at the stratagem employed to detain him. With cheerfulness for the time restored, he says:

"Well, Major, by that you've cost me at least one pound sterling. But I'll make you recoup it in boarding and lodging me for—possibly a week."

"A month—a year, if you should like your lodgings and will stay in them. I've got a snug little compound in the Rue Tintelleries, with room to swing hammocks for us both; besides a bin or two of wine, and, what's better, a keg of the 'raal crayther.' Let's along and have a tumbler of it at once. You'll need it to wash the channel spray out of your throat. Don't wait for your luggage. These Custom-house gentry all know me, and will send it directly after. Is it labelled?"

"It is; my name's on everything."

"Let me have one of your cards." The card is handed to him. "There, Monsieur," he says, turning to a douanier, who respectfully salutes, "take this, and see that all the bagage bearing the name on it be kept safely till called for. My servant will come for it. GarÇon!" This to the driver of a voiture, who, for some time viewing them with expectant eye, makes response by a cut of his whip, and brisk approach to the spot where they are standing.

Pushing Captain Ryecroft into the hack, and following himself, the Major gives the French Jehu his address, and they are driven off over the rough, rib-cracking cobbles of Boulogne.