"Mon ami," I ventured to observe, “that ain’t the way we treat noncombatants in America.”

“The countersign,” reiterated the garde, still holding his chassepot in the previous threatening manner.

I looked up.  The stars were in the quiet sky, and the new moon was just sinking beneath the bold outline of Mount Valerien.  The surge of the Seine against the stone piers of the bridge could be distinctly heard.  The scene was unspeakably tranquil, not to say mournful, and I said to myself, “Is this a night for assassination?”

Again I looked up, and I saw the gleam of two more bayonets at the other end of the bridge.  Thereupon I said to myself, “This is not a night for assassination.”

“The countersign,” for the third time, proceeded from the armed Apollyon in front of me.  I grew familiar.

“Come now, my good friend, this little business of mine requires some dispatch.  During the war in America—­”

The click of the hammer of the sentry’s rifle interrupted me.  I felt uncomfortable.  I had been out in the night air many times before, but I never knew it to be so disagreeably chilly.  It climbed in behind my shirt collar, travelled down my back with a shivering sensation, and culminated in a regular ague when it reached my knees.  With a terrific effort I calmed myself, and opened on the soldiers again.  “During the war in America—­” There are occasions in a man’s lifetime when the mere fact of his tongue cleaving unexpectedly to the roof of his mouth is no evidence of cowardice.  I had unquestionably reached that eventful period of my existence, but I also possessed physical energy to try once more.

“My good, kind friend, I was going to say that during the war in America—­”

“Oh! d—­n your war in America!” roared the sentry, levelling his rifle full at me.

There is no American living who would sooner resent an insult to his native land than myself, and at such a crisis I felt that within me which might rise at any moment and crush the foul calumniator.  But I reasoned to myself that I would not take the life of this man, now.  I would wait awhile.  It was only too evident he was angry, and he might cool off and apologize.  Yes, that was the best course for me to pursue.  Accordingly I ran rapidly over in my mind a little speech, and, turning to him, spoke thus: 

“Rash, impetuous man—­”

L A T E R.

Thanks to the persistent efforts of my dear friend WASHBURNE, I have just been released from the guard-house after three hideous days of incarceration.  His is a heart that I may truthfully say yearns toward the unfortunate.  I consider him the crowning glory of American diplomacy in Europe.  Language is inadequate to express the feelings of one who regrets that his sex forbids him to sign himself

Your weeping MAGDALEN, DICK TINTO.

* * * * *

A Toothsome Con.