“Rum beggars, indeed,” said he, resuming the paper, and reading the programme of the amusements for the day, commencing with the hour of Protestant service at the Ambassador’s Chapel, followed on by Palace and Gallery of Pictures of the Palais Royal—­Review with Military Music in the Place du Carousel—­Horse-races in the Champs de Mars—­Fete in the Park of St. Cloud—­Combat d’Animaux, that is to say, dog-fighting and bull-baiting, at the Barriere du Combat, Tivoli, etc., etc., “It’s not werry right, but I suppose at Rome we must do as Romans do,” with which comfortable reflection Mr. Jorrocks proposed that the Countess and he should go to the races.  Madame was not partial to animals of any description, but having got a new hat and feathers she consented to show them, on condition that they adjoined to the fete at St. Cloud in the evening.

Accordingly, about noon, the ostler’s man of a neighbouring English livery-stable drew up a dark-coloured job cab, with a red-and-white striped calico lining, drawn by a venerable long-backed white horse, at the Countess’s gateway in the Rue des Mauvais-Garcons, into which Mr. Jorrocks having handed her ladyship, and Agamemnon, who was attired in his chasseur uniform, having climbed up behind, the old horse, after two or three flourishes of his dirty white tail, as a sort of acknowledgment of the whip on his sides, got himself into motion, and proceeded on his way to the races.  The Countess being resolved to cut a dash, had persuaded our hero to add a smart second-hand cocked-hat, with a flowing red-and-white feather, to the rest of his military attire; and the end of a scarlet handkerchief, peeping out at the breast of his embroidered frock-coat, gave him the appearance of wearing a decoration, and procured him the usual salute from the soldiers and veterans of the Hospital of Invalids, who were lounging about the ramparts and walks of the edifice.  The Countess’s costume was simple and elegant; a sky-blue satin pelisse with boots to match, and a white satin bonnet with white feathers, tipped with blue, and delicate primrose-coloured gloves.  Of course the head of the cab was well thrown back to exhibit the elegant inmates to the world.

Great respect is paid to the military in France, as Mr. Jorrocks found by all the hack, cab, and fiacre drivers pulling up and making way for him to pass, as the old crocodile-backed white horse slowly dragged its long length to the gateway of the Champ de Mars.  Here the guard, both horse and foot, saluted him, which he politely acknowledged, under direction of the Countess, by raising his chapeau bras, and a subaltern was dispatched by the officer in command to conduct him to the place appointed for the carriages to stand.  But for this piece of attention Mr. Jorrocks would certainly have drawn up at the splendid building of the Ecole Militaire, standing as it does like a grand stand in the centre of the gravelly dusty plain of the Champ de Mars.  The