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In the year 1800, I was staying in a small village in France, taking a short holiday after the numerous occupations of my busy life. My time was chiefly spent in walking excursions about the neighbourhood. My hostess at the village auberge fully entered into my wish of exploring the curiosities of the surrounding country, and when I returned from one expedition, was always sure to have another to propose for my amusement.

“Monsieur devra aller voir l’église de A. ou le château de Monseigneur le Marquis au pied de la montagne,” she would say, as she was laying the cloth for my supper. Then she would tell me the best way of getting to the spot in question, and all so clearly pointed out, that I soon found that my best chance of success in the way of enjoyment lay in following her directions implicitly. One evening when I came in, she laughingly told me that she was now come nearly to the end of her list, but had kept the best for the last, and that to-morrow I must go to the Château des Carlans, which she was sure would please me better than all the places I had yet seen. It was a long way, and difficult to find; so, would Monsieur have the cheval brun (he would find him a very pleasant horse to ride), and little Pierre could go with him as a