“You overslept yourself on the wedding-day, I suppose.”

“You shall hear, ma’am, the story is a very short one:  It is now about eight years ago, I was rambling through the south of France, and had just reached Lyons, where the confounded pavement, that sticks up like pears, with the point upwards, had compelled me to rest some days and recruit; for this purpose I installed myself in the pension of Madame Gourgead, Rue de Petits Carmes, a quiet house—­where we dined at twelve, ten in number, upon about two pounds of stewed beef, with garlic and carrots —­a light soup, being the water which accompanied the same to render it tender in stewing—­some preserved cherries, and an omelette, with a pint bottle of Beaune, 6me qualite, I believe—­a species of pyroligneous wine made from the vine stalks, but pleasant in summer with your salad; then we played dominos in the evening, or whist for sous points, leading altogether a very quiet and virtuous existence, or as Madame herself expressed it, ‘une vie tout-a-fait patriarchale;’ of this I cannot myself affirm how far she was right in supposing the patriarchs did exactly like us.  But to proceed, in the same establishment there lived a widow whose late husband had been a wine merchant at Dijon—­he had also, I suppose from residing in that country, been imitating the patriarchs, for he died one day.  Well, the lady was delayed at Lyons for some law business, and thus it came about, that her husband’s testament and the sharp paving stones in the streets determined we should be acquainted.  I cannot express to you the delight of my fair countrywoman at finding that a person who spoke English had arrived at the ’pension’—­a feeling I myself somewhat participated in; for to say truth, I was not at that time a very great proficient in French.  We soon became intimate, in less time probably than it could otherwise have happened, for from the ignorance of all the others of one word of English, I was enabled during dinner to say many soft and tender things, which one does not usually venture on in company.

“I recounted my travels, and told various adventures of my wanderings, till at last, from being merely amused, I found that my fair friend began to be interested in my narratives; and frequently when passing the bouillon to her, I have seen a tear in the corner of her eye:  in a word, ‘she loved me for the dangers I had passed,’ as Othello says.  Well, laugh away if you like, but it’s truth I am telling you.”  At this part of Mr. O’Leary’s story we all found it impossible to withstand the ludicrous mock heroic of his face and tone, and laughed loud and long.  When we at length became silent he resumed—­“Before three weeks had passed over, I had proposed and was accepted, just your own way, Mr. Lorrequer, taking the ball at the hop, the very same way you did at Cheltenham, the time the lady jilted you, and ran off with your friend Mr. Waller; I read it all in the news, though I was then in Norway fishing.”