“Female,” replied Colonel G—. “Altogether it’s a story worth telling, and, as it will pass away the time, I will relate it to you—unless you wish to retire.”
As I satisfied him that I was not anxious to go to bed, and very anxious to hear his story, he narrated it, as nearly as I can recollect, in the following words:—
“I had taken my place in the diligence from Paris, and when I arrived at Notre Dame des Victoires it was all ready for a start; the luggage, piled up as high as an English haystack, had been covered over and buckled down, and the conducteur was calling out for the passengers. I took my last hasty whiff of my cigar, and unwillingly threw away more than half of a really good Havannah; for I perceived that in the intérieur, for which I had booked myself, there was one female already seated: and women and cigars are such great luxuries in their respective ways, that they are not to be indulged in at one and the same time—the world would be too happy, and happiness, we are told, is not for us here below. Not that I agree with that moral, although it comes from very high authority; there is a great deal of happiness in this world, if you knew how to extract it,—or, rather, I should say, of pleasure; there is a pleasure in doing good; there is a pleasure, unfortunately, in doing wrong; there is a pleasure in looking forward, ay, and in looking backward also; there is pleasure in loving and being loved, in eating, and drinking, and, though last, not least, in smoking. I do not mean to say that there are not the drawbacks of pain, regret, and even remorse; but there is a sort of pleasure even in them; it is pleasant to repent, because you know that you are doing your duty; and if there is no great pleasure in pain, it precedes an excess when it has left you. I say again that, if you know how to extract it, there is a great deal of pleasure and of happiness in this world, especially if you have, as I have, a very bad memory.
“‘Allons, messieurs!’ said the conducteur; and when I got in I found myself the sixth person, and opposite to the lady: for all the other passengers were of my own sex. Having fixed our hats up to the roof, wriggled and twisted a little so as to get rid of coat-tails, etcetera, all of which was effected previously to our having cleared Rue Notre Dame des Victoires, we began to scrutinise each other. Our female companion’s veil was down and doubled so that I could not well make her out; my other four companions were young men—all Frenchmen,—apparently good-tempered, and inclined to be agreeable. A few seconds were sufficient for my reconnoitre of the gentlemen, and then my eyes were naturally turned towards the lady. She was muffled up in a winter cloak, so that her figure was not to be made out; and the veil still fell down before her face, so that only one cheek and a portion of her chin could be deciphered: that fragment of her physiognomy was very pretty, and I watched in silence for the removal of the veil.
“I have omitted to state that, before I got into the diligence, I saw her take a very tender adieu of a very handsome woman; but, as her back was turned to me at the time, I did not see her face. She had now fallen back in her seat, and seemed disposed to commune with her own thoughts: that did not suit my views, which were to have a view of her face. Real politeness would have induced me to leave her to herself, but pretended politeness was resorted to that I might gratify my curiosity; so I inquired if she wished the window up. The answer was in the negative, and in a very sweet voice; and then there was a pause, of course so I tried again.
“‘You are melancholy at parting with your handsome sister,’ observed I, leaning forward with as much appearance of interest as I could put into my beautiful phiz.
“‘How could you have presumed that she was my sister?’ replied she.
“‘From the strong family likeness,’ replied I. ‘I felt certain of it.’
“‘But she is only my sister-in-law, sir,—my brother’s wife.’
“‘Then, I presume, he chose a wife as like his sister as he could find; nothing more natural—I should have done the same.’