“What!” exclaimed I, “would you still know him to be an Englishman?” “Assurément, Monsieur.”
“What! before he spoke?” “Au premier coup d’œil, Monsieur.”
“The Devil you would; but how?” “C’est que Messieurs les Anglois ont un air—une manière de se présenter—un—que sais-je moi—vous m’entendez bien, Monsieur—un certain air si Gau—”
“Quel air maraud?” “Enfin un air qui est charmant, si vous voulez, Monsieur,” said he rapidly, “mais que le Diable m’emporte si c’est l’air François.”
To-morrow I shall take a view of this town, and proceed immediately after breakfast to Paris: mean while I wish you very heartily good night.
LETTER LXXXI.
Paris.
I Made a longer stay at Besançon than I intended, and am now about to inform you what detained me. The morning after the date of my last, as I returned to the inn from the parade, where I had been to see the troops, I met a servant of the Marquis de F——, who ran up to me the moment he knew me, and, in a breath, told me, that his master was at Besançon; that he had been exceedingly ill, and thought, by the physicians, in great danger; but his complaint having terminated in an ague, they had now the strongest hopes of his recovery. I desired to be conducted immediately to him.