—A grave magistrate of France—no matter who—was voyaging through Belgium with his wife. They had spun out a month of summer with that graceful mingling of idlesse and wonder, that a Frenchwoman can so well graft upon the habit of a husband's travel: they had bidden adieu to Brussels, and to Liege, and were fast nearing the border-town, beyond which lay their own sunny realm of France.
The wife suddenly cuts short her smiles, and whispers her husband—"Mon cher, I have been guilty of an imprudence."
"It is not possible."
"Si: a great one. I have my satchel full of laces, they are contraband; pray, take them and hide them until the frontier is past."
The husband was thunderstruck: "But, my dear, I—a magistrate, conceal contraband goods?"
"Pray, consider, mon cher, they are worth fifteen hundred francs; there is not a moment to lose."
"But, my dear!"
"Quick—in your hat—the whistle is sounding—"
There seemed no alternative, and the poor man bestowed the contraband laces in his chapeau.
The officials at the frontier, on recognizing the dignity of the traveler, abstained from any examination of his luggage, and offered him every facility. Thus far his good fortune was unexpected. But some unlucky attendant had communicated to the town authorities the presence of so distinguished a personage. The town authorities were zealous to show respect; and posted at once to the station to make token of their regard. The magistrate was charmed with such attention—so unexpected, and so heart-felt. He could not refrain from the most gracious expression of his reconnaissance; he tenders them his thanks in set terms;—he bids them adieu;—and, in final acknowledgment of their kindness—he lifts his hat, with enthusiastic flourish.