Chapter XV: An Elopement From a Diligence

It came out, over the Burgundy, that Sir Hilary passed most of his time in Paris, but often repaired to Calais or Boulogne to be for the while nearer England. He still remained from his own country because he dreaded being called on by the law for an account of the killing of Mr. Bullcott,--not that he feared the outcome as to his bodily safety, but that such legal proceedings might bring out the name of his sister, and provide the _Town and Country Magazine_ with a characteristic narrative, in which every one concerned should figure, the vowels in each name supplanted by dashes. Bold as he was in many things, the fox-hunter was timid as to that sort of celebrity.

But the non-existence of any one who would desire to see Squire Bullcott's removal avenged, promised eventual safety for Sir Hilary's person; and the general forgetfulness of things past would in time enable him to return home without risk of reviving interest in the affair at the Pelican, although he was forever officially branded by the coroner's verdict as having caused the death of Bullcott under circumstances to be further determined.

And now, at the fourth bottle, Sir Hilary insisted on repaying Mr. Wetheral, with interest, for having silenced the landlord of the Pelican. It seemed that Sir Hilary received plenty of money from his estate, and, being given to amusements of the country, knew not how to spend it on the pleasures of Paris. He required that Dick should go along immediately to a tailor's, and fit himself out handsomely, and Dick, seeing how much gratification the Englishman really took in this kind of generosity, made no protest. Nor did he object when the bountiful Berkshire baronet thrust upon him a well-filled purse. In those days, gentlemen had not the petty vanity of refusing to put themselves under obligations to one another. Without any affectation of pride, they readily accepted favors which they knew they would as readily bestow were conditions reversed.

So Dick remained Sir Hilary's guest at the hotel that day and night, and the next morning they took post-horses and rode to Samers, Sir Hilary's intention being to proceed in a leisurely way, seeing as much country and drinking as much wine as they could, to Paris. As for Dick, recalling that memorable afternoon's journey of his childhood, he considered now that the words of old Tom MacAlister had been those of an oracle, and that fate designed his road to lead to Paris, whatever plans he might make for himself.

Moreover, a definite purpose now formed in his mind, which purpose of itself called him Parisward. In the auberge at Samers, where Sir Hilary prolonged their stop to try thoroughly the wine of the country, Dick overheard a conversation between a voluble petit maitre and a short-gowned Capuchin monk, in which the name of Washington instantly caught his ear. He soon found that the talk was on the American war, and that the talkers sympathized with the Americans. He learned that a recent daring blow struck by Washington at Trenton, and another victory, won at Princeton, had offset the effect of the British occupation of New York and the British victories connected therewith. He learned, too, that Franklin, a name spoken with as great honor at this little French inn as at home, had come to France as an agent of the Americans, and was now with his fellow agent, Mr. Silas Deane, at the Hotel d'Hambourg, in the Rue l'Universite, in Paris. This news, at which Dick glowed inwardly, gave him the idea of offering his services to Franklin, to be used in any way and in any place proposable.

That same day the fellow travellers rode on, over the undulating country of the Boulonnois, by woods and streams, to Montreuil, where they had to give their names to a polite guard officer at the gates; leaped from their horses at the sign of the Crown of France, paid their post, and took lodging for the night.

Sir Hilary promptly ordered a roasted capon, a fricasseed hare, a wild duck, a salad, and a flask of Burgundy, the two gentlemen having chosen a table at a window. While they sat eating, they saw drive up to the inn a lumbering four-wheeled carriage, which let out a severe, stately, slender old lady, a demure-looking, black-eyed girl of seventeen, and a gaunt, gray-haired man-servant, in well-worn livery. Waiting while the old lady oversaw the removal of several ancient portmanteaus, the girl looked with indifferent curiosity at the inn. Her eyes, swiftly moving, met Dick's through the window, and rested a moment,--a moment only, but time sufficient to give him that sensation which fine eyes, so encountered, usually produce. The girl soon looked elsewhere, the old lady led the way into the inn, and the carriage moved off. Dick saw no more of the black-eyed girl that evening, yet he did not forget that she was under the same roof with him.

The next morning, at breakfast, Sir Hilary raised the question as to what means of conveyance they should next take. At that moment, Dick saw the gray-haired man-servant taking out the ladies' luggage to the Paris diligence, which great, unshapely vehicle, drawn by gaunt horses, now stood before the door.

"What conveyance?" echoed Dick. "How can you ask? Why, the diligence, of course!"

And there was more haste than Sir Hilary saw the need of, in finishing the breakfast, paying the bill, and getting Sir Hilary's baggage down-stairs in time to make sure of not being left behind.

Dick and Sir Hilary had been aboard some minutes, before the ladies appeared. Dick leaped out and gave his hand to them, the old lady first, to assist them into the diligence. The old lady bowed, but looked distrustful; the girl said, "Merci, monsieur," in a low but appreciative voice, and turned her eyes on his for a considerable part of a second. Dick took a seat where he could get a view of the girl's face without staring directly at her, and the diligence rumbled off with many a violent jolt.

"They call these machines turgotines," said Sir Hilary, alluding to the diligence, and speaking in French purposely to be heard by the other passengers, "because they were introduced during the ministry of Monseer Turgot, but if I were Monseer Turgot I shouldn't be proud on that account."

A Picardy abbe replying with a polite question as to stage-coaches in England, the conversation soon became general. One of the passengers was an old lieutenant who had served in Canada, and, through some remark of his, the American war became the topic,--a topic at that time held in far greater interest throughout Europe than Dick had imagined it would be. A difference arising among the passengers as to the relative situations of Boston and Philadelphia, Dick undertook to set them right; but his statement was doubted by the majority. Thereupon, the black-eyed girl, who had of course kept silent hitherto, spoke out in a somewhat embarrassed manner, confirming Dick's assertion.

"Thanks, mademoiselle!" said Dick, gratefully. "The word of mademoiselle must be final, ladies and gentlemen,--she is doubtless more recently from school than any of us."

Mademoiselle smiled slightly, and said no more, the old lady's look being directed at her in severe rebuke.

The stop for dinner caused a rearrangement of the passengers as to the places in the diligence. Dick now found himself beside the dark-eyed girl, at whose other hand, in a corner, sat the old lady. At Dick's other side was Sir Hilary. The ladies' man-servant was outside. Having dined heavily, Sir Hilary fell asleep before the coach had gone far. And, to Dick's unexpected pleasure, the old lady, after several preliminary nods, followed the fox-hunter's example. The other passengers became engrossed in the adventures of the lieutenant and the comic stories of the abbe.

"Have you ever been in America, mademoiselle," said Dick, softly, "that you are so well informed about its towns?"

"No, monsieur," she answered, in as low a tone as his, "but, as you said, I am very recently from school. I have often studied the maps at the convent I left but yesterday."

The conversation thus entered upon continued during the whole afternoon, and was marked by an uninterrupted progress in mutual acquaintance and confidence. Under certain conditions, and between congenial persons, a closer intimacy may be reached in a half day's fellow-travelling than may otherwise be attained in a lifetime of occasional meetings. By the time the diligence neared Abbeville la Pucelle, Dick was the young lady's confidant as to these facts:

She was leaving her convent school to be married in Paris to a Chevalier of St. Louis, whom she regarded with aversion for the reason that he was almost old enough to be her grandfather. The marriage had been arranged by her father, an officer of the regiment of Picardy, whose sister was the old lady now taking her to Paris. With such antipathy and dread did the girl look forward to the marriage, that she had almost dared to meditate rebellion and flight, for she was not closely attached to her father, whose military duties kept him away from her, and she inherited from her dead mother a moderate fortune that could not be alienated from her. But she was under the domination of her aunt, who had helped arrange the marriage, the girl's father being on service.

"What else can I do?" she asked Dick, helplessly. "I dare not disobey my aunt, I have not the courage to resist her. I have felt like one half dead, since I left the convent, and in that condition I shall be led passively through it all, till I find myself--oh, how can I endure it?"

"You shall not!" said Dick, with impulsive eagerness to play the chivalrous part. "You must not! I will save you from the intolerable fate!"

The girl looked at him in wonder. "If you could!" she whispered slowly, half in despair, half in newly risen hope.

At that moment, the diligence coming to a stop at the post inn at Abbeville, the aunt showed signs of waking. "Rely on me, I shall not desert you!" whispered Dick, and then very gallantly stooped and restored a handkerchief dropped by the aunt in the act of waking.

That evening, while Sir Hilary celebrated in many bumpers the beauty of the girls of Abbeville, Dick thought over the situation of her whose eyes made the Abbeville virgins colorless and uninteresting. The only practicable way for her to avoid the marriage was by physical flight. She might become a nun, but Dick could not tolerate the idea of so much charm buried for life in a convent, and she herself had not spoken of such a refuge. She might have friends or relations who would shelter and conceal her in her rebellion. But if this were not the case she would have only the protection and guidance of Dick, and there was but one condition on which she could accept those with safety to her honor. Well, Dick was not a man to turn back after having given his assurance; the girl was certainly charming and amiable, she had a small fortune to ensure her own comfort, and the thought of her perturbing glances reserved exclusively for some other man filled Dick with a kind of chagrin. Moreover, her name was Collette, and she looked the name.

The next day he got no chance to speak to her until the afternoon. Then, protected as before by the slumbering aunt on one side and the drowsy baronet on the other, the young people resumed their conversation. Was she still as much opposed to the marriage as ever? Oh, decidedly, far more so!--with a little terrified look at Dick. Had she any friends to whom she might go? None who would not betray her. No refuge whatever in mind? None whatever. Would she risk her father's displeasure and her aunt's, provided there were some one to stand between her and that displeasure? Why, yes, if such a situation were possible,--anything rather than the marriage. Would she be resigned to a marriage with a younger gentleman? Why, yes, if--that is to say--if--

"If," said Dick, in low tones, but with all due signs of feeling, "if the gentleman were an American, carried from his country by the wind of circumstance, with nothing in the world but the clothes on his back, a few louis in his pocket, and some land in the wilderness of Pennsylvania, but with a prospect of honorable employment for his country on reaching Paris, and with a hand that could be turned to anything and would ever be devoted to your honor and happiness?"

She raised her eyes, which had been lowered, and in meeting his their jetty brilliance took a humid softness as she answered, gently, "Is it of yourself that you speak, monsieur?"

So it was agreed upon, while the diligence rumbled past a gentle hillside crowned by a fair chateau flanked by oak woods. When they came in sight of the oak-topped ramparts of Amiens, their plans were complete. Dick was to have a hired carriage and post-horses ready near the inn, and Collette was to join him at the inn door as soon as her aunt and the servant should be abed. Riding all night and part of the next day, they could defy pursuit, and carry out their purpose at leisure. Though they should continue towards Paris, there would be no danger of being overtaken, especially by the diligence, which, because of bad weather and bad roads, was then making smaller than the usual daily stages, as any one acquainted with the country traversed will have seen. Dick preferred not yet to take Sir Hilary into confidence; he knew where to communicate with the baronet in due time in Paris.

Amiens was a large town with fine streets of well-built houses, and with a beautiful cathedral containing the head of John the Baptist; but Dick had no eye for these things on this occasion. At the inn Sir Hilary met two officers of the regiment of the Prince of Conde, on leave, and was soon lost in conversation and champagne, so that Dick was free to make his arrangements.

Fortunately, the purse pressed upon Dick by the baronet in Boulogne was still nearly full. He obtained a carriage from the diligence company, and two horses and a postilion from the postman at the inn. Soon after supper, while he paced before the inn door, in the cold evening, the cloaked and hooded figure of Collette appeared from within, noiselessly; whereupon he took her hand, and the pair hastened like ghosts to the waiting carriage, which rattled away with them a minute later. A twenty-four-sous piece, handed to the sentinel, caused the city gates, which had been closed for the night, to fly open, and the jack-booted postilion was soon swearing and singing, and whipping his horses, in the open country, on the road to Chantilly. Inside the carriage, the two young people sat silent, the girl perhaps trembling now and then at thought of the leap she had taken into the unknown, Dick somewhat sobered at the responsibility he had so speedily assumed. But he was, as usual, ready for anything, and often he pressed her hand to reassure her.

It was the night of Thursday, February 27, 1777. Evening had set in with increasing cold and a howling wind. Engrossed in their thoughts, Dick and Collette for two or three hours noticed not that the wind was constantly gaining in force and fury. Suddenly the carriage stopped, there was a brief wait, and the door was flung open.

"It is impossible to go farther to-night, monsieur," said the postilion, thrusting in his head. "One of the horses has cast a shoe and is very lame."

"But we _must_ go on," said Dick. "It is a matter of life and death."

"It is simply impossible," said the postilion, stubbornly.

"It cannot be impossible. Have I not paid half the post hire in advance?"

"Monsieur can go on, in the morning. There is an auberge a little distance ahead, where he and madame can pass the night. I will find a smith and have the horse shod in time to set out early."

"Are you sure it is the lameness of the horse, that moves you, or a desire to get indoors from the cold?" queried Dick.

"Monsieur l'Anglois has the privilege of thinking as it may please him. Will he have me drive to the auberge, or will he remain here in the road all night?"

"Let him drive to the auberge, for heaven's sake!" whispered Collette, somewhat terrified.

The auberge, when reached, proved to be a miserable hut of three apartments,--stable, kitchen, and common sleeping-room. The host and his wife, visible by light of candle and by kitchen fire, were an evil-looking pair.

"Oh," said Collette, drawing back from the doorway, "I can never stay here!"

"There is no other place," said the postilion, with an impudent grin.

"I will find another place," said Dick, beginning to feel ugly towards the postilion. "I see a light on the hill yonder. It comes from the window of a chateau. Such a house will not refuse us hospitality, my Collette! You will drive us to that house, fellow!" And Dick lifted Mademoiselle Collette into the carriage.

"I will not drive one step!" said the postilion, insolently, with a careless crack of his whip.

Dick looked at the fellow a moment, strode up to him, wrenched the whip from his hand by an unexpected movement, and struck him two quick blows across the face with it.

"Drive us to that house!" said Dick.

The postilion mounted, without a word, and Dick, retaining the whip, joined Collette inside the carriage.

At the chateau, while Collette remained in the carriage, Dick got out to speak to the servant who opened the door in response to the postilion's knock. Dick so framed his message to the master of the house, that the latter himself came to the door, Dick remaining outside to guard Collette and the carriage. The master of the house, lighted by the candles in the entrance-hall, was an elderly gentleman, tall and slender, with a bright eye and a face at once kindly, distinguished, and intellectual.

"Monsieur," said Dick, in as good French as he could command, "a circumstance has made it impossible for me to continue to-night a journey I began in that carriage a few hours ago. The only inn near at hand is one where it would be equally impossible for the lady whom I have the honor to protect, to pass the night. The lady is now in the carriage, and--"

"Monsieur need say no more," replied the gentleman, in a most courteous and sympathetic tone. "My house shall be the lady's inn and your own. There is no hostess yet to welcome her, but fortunately there is a maid, whom I shall send immediately. As for you, monsieur, when you have seen the lady cared for, Etienne will show you, if you choose, to the room in which I shall be at supper. The lady will doubtless prefer to sup in her own apartment."

"I thank you, monsieur, but we have supped already. I will do myself the honor to join you, nevertheless, and make myself better acquainted with so courteous a gentleman."

The gentleman smiled, bowed, and disappeared through an inner door. Dick returned to Collette.

"A maid will come for you in a moment," said he. "Our host is a most charming gentleman, both in act and in appearance."

"I did not look out of the carriage to see him," said Collette, taking Dick's hand and stepping to the ground. "Why, how strange that I should be a guest at this house! I recognize it now. It is one that I have often noticed while riding past in the road below. I have always wished I might live in it."

A maid now appeared at the doorway. Collette took leave of Dick for the night, saying she desired nothing further and would defer till morning her meeting with the master of the house. Dick thereupon sent the shivering postilion, with horses, carriage, and whip, back to the auberge, and asked Etienne, the servant who had let him in, and who still stood in the entrance-hall, to show him to the supper table.

In a richly furnished room, softly lighted by wax candles, and warmed by fragrant fagots in a small fireplace, he found his considerate host seated at a well-filled table, opposite a round-faced priest, still under middle age, who beamed with merriment and good nature. Dick announced his name, and was thereupon introduced to the Abbe Foyard by the master of the house, who then said:

"Monsieur will pardon me, I am sure, if I adhere--merely for the sake of habit--to the incognito I am preserving in this neighborhood at present. I do not wish my name to get abroad as the new purchaser of this estate."

"My obligations are no less for my not knowing to whom they are due, monsieur," said Dick, taking the seat to which his host motioned him, at the table. He would eat nothing, but he would drink some wine, and he joined in a toast of Burgundy, proposed by the Abbe, with a twinkling eye, to "Madame la Comtesse that is to be."

From the fact that in the ensuing conversation the Abbe addressed the master of the house as Monsieur le Comte, Dick soon understood the toast, the Abbe's look of sly merriment, and the half pleased, half chiding expression of the Count himself. The bottle went round often, and the talk became unconstrained. Dick made it known that he was an American, whereupon he was plied with many questions concerning the war, and particularly concerning the personality of Washington. The Count then said he had seen that great philosopher, Franklin, in Paris, honored by beautiful women and celebrated men, among whom he appeared in his plain coat, as if the simplicity of the ancient sages had been in him revived.

"It is in the hope of meeting him," said Dick, "that I am now on the way to Paris."

"Then you have a pleasure very near at hand," said the Count.

"I trust it is near at hand," said Dick. "It may be delayed by another matter that must intervene,--also a pleasure."

"You speak and look as if it were a matter of some doubt or difficulty," said the Count. "If I can be of assistance--"

"I thank you, monsieur, but it is a matter in which the aid of Monsieur l'Abbe would be more to the point."

"Command me, monsieur," put in the Abbe. "My aid is for whoever asks it."

"I begin to understand," said the Count, with a kindly smile. "The lady in the carriage--"

"Precisely," said Dick. "Monsieur le Comte is very penetrating."

"Oh, no, very stupid, usually," said the Count. "But at present there is a reason why my perception is keen wherever a love affair or a marriage is concerned."

"Then it is true, as the toast of Monsieur l'Abbe indicated, that you also are about to achieve happiness? We have to felicitate each other!"

"Yes, it is true. And so great is my happiness that I would have the whole world happy at the same time. I was saying this to the Abbe only an hour ago, and wishing for opportunities to make others similarly happy, when, behold, the good God grants my wish by sending you to my door. You would have the aid of the Abbe, you say? Very well. I use the power I have over the Abbe's actions, through his affection for me, to compel his aid in your behalf."

"But that is not necessary," said the Abbe. "You know I dote upon runaway matches. I need not apologize, Monsieur Wetheral,--one can easily see, by the circumstances, that yours is a runaway match. It is therefore a love match."

"You are right, Monsieur l'Abbe. The young lady was to have been sacrificed, according to the custom that prevails everywhere but in my country. Her horror at the match arranged for her would have distressed you, gentlemen, if you could have witnessed it."

"I am sure it would have distressed me," said the Count. "But it is now averted, and need be thought of no more. The Abbe shall perform your marriage before you leave my roof, under which you are safe from all pursuit."

"Imagine Monsieur le Comte aiding and abetting a runaway marriage a year ago!" said the Abbe, with a roguish smile.

"The Abbe is right, young gentleman. A year ago I should no more have thought of violating a universal custom of our civilization than of joining a conspiracy against the King. But a year ago I had not loved. I knew not what it might be for a man to see the woman he loved given into the possession of another. I now consider love as having first right. It is to be obeyed against all other considerations. Moreover, if I now do Love a service in aiding this match of yours, Love will owe me a favor. It may repay me by--giving me--" The Count ceased talking, and sighed.

"Monsieur le Comte has a strange fancy he does not receive back as much love as he bestows," explained the Abbe, gently. "He does not allow for the lady's youth, which makes her naturally shy and undemonstrative in his presence."

"I am sure there can be no reason for his fancy," said Dick, glancing with genuine admiration at the singularly noble and gentle countenance of his host.

"And if there were," said the Abbe, noting that the Count still looked pensive, "what woman's heart could continue long unsusceptible to such munificence? What think you of this chateau, with its princely parks, as a wedding present, monsieur,--a little surprise, after the jewels, the house in Paris, and the other trinkets shall have been surveyed? Do you not think that, if anything be wanting to make the lady's heart respond, it will be supplied when she is told that she is mistress of this house, which, as Monsieur le Comte has learned, she has coveted since her childhood?"

Dick's thought that the Abbe knew less of how women are constituted than abbes are supposed to know, was suddenly driven out by another thought,--that it was strange two young ladies should both have coveted this chateau since childhood.

"You now understand," said the Count to Dick, "my desire to remain unknown as the purchaser of this place. I would not have the news reach her ears and spoil the surprise. And I congratulate myself on being here, superintending the last alterations, and on having brought the Abbe with me as company; for that your love match may be somewhat facilitated through us. Come, Abbe, rejoice with me that we are enabled to serve love, and to baffle those who would do it violence! What greater crime can there be than to force a girl to a marriage of interest? Your rival, monsieur, will deserve his discomfiture! I should really like to witness his chagrin. To conspire selfishly, with a young girl's natural protectors, against her happiness! Yes, it pleases me to think how crestfallen he will be! Monsieur, you have drunk already to my future countess; let us drink now to the lady whom the Abbe shall unite to you in this house at whatever time she may select!"

The toast was drunk heartily, and Dick, letting his eyes rove lazily among the many signs of wealth and luxurious comfort in the room, inwardly contrasted the possible future of the girl whose fate he was to take in charge, with that of her whose destiny was to be in the keeping of the rich and generous Count.

"To think that her house should serve the romantic purpose of a runaway love match!" said the Count, with a smile. "It will amuse Collette."

Dick turned pale. "Collette!" he echoed. "You said Collette!"

"That is the first name of the lady who is to be my wife," explained the Count. "Why does it startle you?"

"Oh, because I have heard that name so recently. My own fiancee has a friend of that name,--a schoolmate, at a convent somewhere near Montreuil."

"'Tis the very same!" cried the Count, with great pleasure. "To think, Abbe, that we should be of service to one of her friends! That surely will delight her!"

"But," faltered Dick, "is it certain? There may be two of that name at the same convent. The one of whom I speak has left it very recently, with her aunt--"

"It is she!" said the Count, more and more rejoiced at corroborative details. "She ought to be at this moment at Abbeville or Amiens, on the way to Paris to be married. She will pass this house and look up at it, wishing it were hers, as she has so often done, and never dreaming I am here making it ready for her! Yes, there can be no doubt, it is the same Collette,--Mademoiselle de Sarton!"

When Dick was shown to a round chamber in a turret-shaped corner of the chateau that night, he asked for pen, ink, and paper, saying he always wrote his letters late. By the light of a small candelabra, and after much thought and many beginnings, he composed two documents before he went to bed.

At earliest dawn he dressed and went down-stairs, told the only servant he found up that he was going for a short walk, and left with the servant the two letters, each to be taken to the chamber of its intended recipient. Then Dick hastened to the auberge where his horses and postilion had passed the night.

One letter was to Collette, and read as follows:

"MADEMOISELLE:

"You are now in your own house, which you have so long wished to
possess. Its master, the noblest, kindest, and handsomest
gentleman in the world, with boundless will and means to make you
happy, is he from whom I, a worthless adventurer with neither
possessions nor prospects, would have taken you, in my ignorance
and folly. You should thank God for your escape and for giving you
a husband such as Monsieur le Comte, whose years have but added to
his graces and his merits. I have written him to such effect that
he will understand all, and that, when he comes to greet you,
nothing will be necessary on your part but for you to give him
your hand, and offer your brow for the caress which a princess
might be rejoiced and honored to receive."

The other letter was to the Count himself, and, whatever it contained, there is plentiful record, in the family history of the Counts de Rollincourt, to show that it accomplished its purpose. By the time the aunt of Mlle. de Sarton reached the newly bought estate of the Count de Rollincourt, in mad search of her fugitive niece, servants were in waiting at the road to conduct her to the chateau, where her amazement to find the Count in possession was promptly doubled on seeing Collette installed as mistress,--for, if the Count's little surprise was spoiled, his plan of having the Abbe Foyard perform an impromptu marriage was carried out, after all.

Meanwhile, long before this happy issue of affairs, Dick Wetheral had roused the cowed postilion and set out on horseback towards Paris, leaving the carriage to be taken back when the postilion should return. Dismissing this postilion at the first post, he took new horses, and, riding all day, despite weather and bad roads, he arrived at evening at St. Denis, and dismounted at the principal inn,--tired, hungry, and bespattered with mud. Before going to bed, he sent for a servant to give his clothes a thorough cleaning, that he might in the morning make his triumphal entry into Paris in a state of attire befitting so important an event. When his head rested on the pillow, it was with a pleasant thrill at the realization that his road, roundabout as it had been, had indeed led him to the very portals of Paris, and that it would take him across those portals on the early morrow.

He little knew in what manner he was to cross those portals, how he was to pass through the city yet see it not, and what a vast loop his road was to describe, over strange perils and through wild heart-burnings, ere it should land him in Paris with free feet and open eyes.