"In three days Dunkirk, then smooth
seas! Good omens everywhere!"
"You do not voyage under your own name?"
"After to-morrow, sir, I am Robert Bonshaw, a Scots physician."
"Ah, well, good fortune to you, and to the exalted person you serve!"
The coach, cumbrous and stately, drawn by four white horses, left the
bridge and came under old palace walls, and thence by narrow streets
advanced toward the great house of its owner. Outside was the numerous
throng, the scattering to this side and that of the imperiled foot
travelers. The coach stopped.
"Here is the street you would reach!" said the helpful person of
quality.
A footman held open the door; the Scot and the Englishman gave proper
expression of gratitude to their benefactor, descended to earth,
turned again to bow low, and waited bareheaded till the great machine
was once more in motion and monseigneur's wig, countenance, and velvet
coat grew things of the past. Then the two turned into a still and
narrow street overhung by high, ancient structures and roofed with
April sky.
The one was going from Paris, the other staying. Both were links in a
long chain of political conspiring. They walked now down the street
that was dark and old, underfoot old mire and mica-like glistening of
fresher rain. The Englishman spoke:
"Have you any news from home?"
"None.
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