"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: