“Doubtless there are good people on both sides,” said I; “and if the Catholics would believe it of us, we might yet live in peace and quietness together.  We have not harmed them—­it is they who harm us.”

“For your good, they will tell you.”

“They may tell us, but we cannot believe it.  Their compulsions are not in the spirit of love.”

La Croissette softly whistled, and presently talked of other things.  By-and-by he said,

“Now we are coming to a town, and you shall see some fun.”

“Will it be quite safe?”

“Safer than anything else.  It is a fair-day; I shall drive straight into the market-place, blow my horn, and play the quack doctor.  Nay, you shall be my accomplice and blow the horn.  Let me put you in costume at once.”

Saying which, he fished out a soiled scarlet cloak, gaily spangled, which he threw over my shoulders, produced a half-mask with an enormous red nose, with which he concealed the upper part of my face, covered my head with a Spanish hat and feather, and gave me a horn.

“Now blow as much as you like,” said he; “be as brazen as your trumpet.”

I laughed, and entered into the joke; no one would suspect me for a Huguenot.

La Croissette then disguised himself in Dr. Jameray’s long black gown, and added a pair of green spectacles, which certainly heightened the effect.  Having driven into the market-place, he placed a little table before him and spread it with boxes and phials, I blowing the horn from time to time in a way which he called quite original, and which speedily drew people about us.  Then, with wonderful self-possession, he harangued them on the merits of his medicines.  For instance, taking up a phial which contained a pink-colored fluid, he descanted on its virtues in this style: 

“My friends, this small bottle contains a famous specific, for those who know how to use it prudently.  When I say prudently, I mean that there are certain things it will do and others it will not.  This remedy is for increasing the strength, improving the appetite, and clearing the head.  Will it, therefore, set a broken arm or draw a tooth?  Most certainly not.  I can draw a tooth for you, if you like it (by-the-by, some think I have a gift that way, but self-praise is no recommendation); I can draw a tooth, I say, no matter with how many fangs; but this medicine cannot.  Does it follow, then, that it will cure a cough or sore throat?  Not at all.  Here, if you like (taking up another bottle) is something that will, but what is that to the purpose?  Will it cure sore eyes?  No; or sprains?  Far from it.  No, no, my most excellent ladies and gentlemen, let us not form unreasonable expectations; day is not night; summer is not winter; nor is a horse-medicine a febrifuge.  It is useless to assert such trash to sensible, well-informed people, Here is an opportunity, such as most of you may possibly never have again, of buying a most delightful and effectual medicine, sweet, not nauseous (strongly reminding one of cherry-brandy), gently exhilarating, and very difficult to be procured; indeed, I have only three small doses of it—­three, did I say?  I’m afraid I have only two—­let me see—­Oh, yes, here are three; and the price is merely nominal—­”