"Té! Are you trying to make a fool of me?" exclaimed the Toulonnais,

bursting out upon us like a bomb with another explosion. "Do you

suppose, then, that I am going down on my knees to thank you for having

undressed Jean Bonaffé's wife?"

"Jean Bonaffé's wife? No, no, my good fellow!" briefly replied my uncle.

"Why 'No'?"

"Why, in the first place, because she is actually my own wife!"

"Yours?"

"As I have the pleasure of informing you. And consequently it is I who

would be entitled not to be at all pleased by your intervention in the

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little domestic occurrence which took place just now."

The Toulonnais, for the moment, was struck dumb with astonishment.

"Then, bagasse! who are you?" he asked.

"The late Barbassou, retired general, seen fifty years of service, and

thirty-nine campaigns, and the husband of your sister-in-law, who is

now a bigamist--rather an awkward mistake for a lady."

My uncle might have gone on speaking for the rest of the day, and had it

all his own way. The unfortunate lieutenant stared at him, crushed and

dumbfounded by this astounding revelation. All at once, and without

waiting to hear any more, he turned on his heels, and beat a precipitate

retreat by the door.

The late Barbassou indulged in a smile at this very intelligible

discomfiture of his adversary. He had finished his madeira, and we went

out to get our horses again.

Directly he had mounted into the saddle, he said to me, reverting to the

subject of our interrupted conversation: "Do you know, I think it's all up with the Madeira vines; but as to

those of the Douro, with careful grafting, we might still pull them

through!"

"I hope so, uncle!" I replied.

And, as a matter of fact, I think he is right. Perhaps we shall soon

know.

Come, I must tell you about a new occurrence which is already

influencing my romance in the most unexpected manner.

I don't suppose you have forgotten our Captain Picklock and the famous

story of the camels which were recovered through his good offices. Well,

the captain, having returned from Aden with the fever, and being at

Paris on his way home, accepted the hospitality of Baron de Villeneuve,

late consul at Pondicherry, whom you know. Two days ago we were invited

to a farewell dinner, given in his honour. It was quite a love-feast:

half a dozen friends, all of whom had been several times round the

world, and had met each other in various latitudes. The ladies consisted

of the amiable Baroness de Villeneuve, Mrs. Picklock, and my aunt. You

may imagine what a number of old recollections they discussed during

dinner. After the coffee we went into the drawing-room, where a

card-table was being set out for whist, when my uncle said: "By the bye, what has become of our good friend Montague?"




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