“Then am I lost,” said I, throwing myself upon a chair; at the same instant my passport, which I carried in my breast pocket, fell out at the feet of the courier.  He lifted it and opened it leisurely.  So engrossed was I by my misfortunes, that for some minutes I did not perceive, that as he continued to read the passport, he smiled from time to time, till at length a hearty fit of laughing awoke me from my abstraction.  My first impulse was to seize him by the throat; controlling my temper, however, with an effort, I said—­

“And pray, Monsieur, may I ask in what manner the position I stand in at this moment affords you so much amusement?  Is there any thing so particularly droll—­any thing so excessively ludicrous in my situation —­or what particular gift do you possess that shall prevent me throwing you out of the window?”

“Mais, Monsieur,” said he, half stifled with laughter, “do you know the blunder I fell into? it is really too good.  Could you only guess who I took you for, you would laugh too.”

Here he became so overcome with merriment, that he was obliged to sit down, which he did opposite to me, and actually shook with laughter.

“When this comedy is over,” thought I, “we may begin to understand each other.”  Seeing no prospect of this, I became at length impatient, and jumping on my legs, said—­

“Enough, sir, quite enough of this foolery.  Believe me, you have every reason to be thankful that my present embarrassment should so far engross me, that I cannot afford time to give you a thrashing.”

“Pardon, mille pardons,” said he humbly; “but you will, I am sure, forgive me when I tell you that I was stupid enough to mistake you for the fugitive Englishman, whom the gens-d’armes are in pursuit of.  How good, eh?”

“Oh! devilish good—­but what do you mean?”

“Why, the fellow that caused the attack at Frascati, and all that, and—­”

“Yes—­well, eh?  Did you think I was him?”

“To be sure I did, till I saw your passport.”

“Till you saw my passport!” Why, what on earth can he mean? thought I.  “No, but,” said I, half jestingly, “how could you make such a blunder?”

“Why, your confused manner—­your impatience to get on—­your hurried questions, all convinced me.  In fact, I’d have wagered any thing you were the Englishman.”

“And what, in heaven’s name, does he think me now?” thought I, as I endeavoured to join the laugh so ludicrous a mistake occasioned.

“But we are delaying sadly,” said the courier.  “Are you ready?”

“Ready?—­ready for what?”

“To go on with me, of course.  Don’t you wish to get early to Strasbourg?”

“To be sure I do.”

“Well, then, come along.  But, pray, don’t mind your luggage, for my caleche is loaded.  Your instruments can come in the diligence.”

“My instruments in the diligence!  He’s mad—­that’s flat.”