- And does the Count de B-, said I, read Shakespeare? C'est un
esprit fort, replied the bookseller. - He loves English books! and

what is more to his honour, Monsieur, he loves the English too.
You speak this so civilly, said I, that it is enough to oblige an

Englishman to lay out a louis d'or or two at your shop. - The
bookseller made a bow, and was going to say something, when a young

decent girl about twenty, who by her air and dress seemed to be
fille de chambre to some devout woman of fashion, come into the

shop and asked for Les Egarements du Coeur et de l'Esprit: the
bookseller gave her the book directly; she pulled out a little

green satin purse run round with a riband of the same colour, and
putting her finger and thumb into it, she took out the money and

paid for it. As I had nothing more to stay me in the shop, we both
walk'd out at the door together.

- And what have you to do, my dear, said I, with The Wanderings of
the Heart, who scarce know yet you have one? nor, till love has

first told you it, or some faithlessshepherd has made it ache,
canst thou ever be sure it is so. - Le Dieu m'en garde! said the

girl. - With reason, said I, for if it is a good one, 'tis pity it
should be stolen; 'tis a little treasure to thee, and gives a

better air to your face, than if it was dress'd out with pearls.
The young girl listened with a submissive attention, holding her

satin purse by its riband in her hand all the time. - 'Tis a very
small one, said I, taking hold of the bottom of it - she held it

towards me - and there is very little in it, my dear, said I; but
be but as good as thou art handsome, and heaven will fill it. I

had a parcel of crowns in my hand to pay for Shakespeare; and, as
she had let go the purse entirely, I put a single one in; and,

tying up the riband in a bow-knot, returned it to her.
The young girl made me more a humblecourtesy than a low one: -

'twas one of those quiet, thankful sinkings, where the spirit bows
itself down, - the body does no more than tell it. I never gave a

girl a crown in my life which gave me half the pleasure.
My advice, my dear, would not have been worth a pin to you, said I,

if I had not given this along with it: but now, when you see the
crown, you'll remember it; - so don't, my dear, lay it out in

ribands.
Upon my word, Sir, said the girl, earnestly, I am incapable; - in

saying which, as is usual in little bargains of honour, she gave me
her hand: - En verite, Monsieur, je mettrai cet argent epart, said

she.
When a virtuous convention is made betwixt man and woman, it

sanctifies their most private walks: so, notwithstanding it was
dusky, yet as both our roads lay the same way, we made no scruple

of walking along the Quai de Conti together.
She made me a second courtesy in setting off, and before we got

twenty yards from the door, as if she had not done enough before,
she made a sort of a little stop to tell me again - she thank'd me.

It was a small tribute, I told her, which I could not avoid paying
to virtue, and would not be mistaken in the person I had been

rendering it to for the world; - but I see innocence, my dear, in
your face, - and foul befall the man who ever lays a snare in its

way!
The girl seem'd affected some way or other with what I said; - she

gave a low sigh: - I found I was not empowered to enquire at all
after it, - so said nothing more till I got to the corner of the

Rue de Nevers, where, we were to part.
- But is this the way, my dear, said I, to the Hotel de Modene?

She told me it was; - or that I might go by the Rue de Gueneguault,
which was the next turn. - Then I'll go, my dear, by the Rue de

Gueneguault, said I, for two reasons; first, I shall please myself,
and next, I shall give you the protection of my company as far on

your way as I can. The girl was sensible I was civil - and said,
she wished the Hotel de Modene was in the Rue de St. Pierre. - You

live there? said I. - She told me she was fille de chambre to
Madame R-. - Good God! said I, 'tis the very lady for whom I have

brought a letter from Amiens. - The girl told me that Madame R-,
she believed, expected a stranger with a letter, and was impatient

to see him: - so I desired the girl to present my compliments to
Madame R-, and say, I would certainly wait upon her in the morning.

We stood still at the corner of the Rue de Nevers whilst this
pass'd. - We then stopped a moment whilst she disposed of her

Egarements du Coeur &c. more commodiously than carrying them in her
hand - they were two volumes: so I held the second for her whilst

she put the first into her pocket; and then she held her pocket,
and I put in the other after it.

'Tis sweet to feel by what fine spun threads our affections are
drawn together.

We set off afresh, and as she took her third step, the girl put her
hand within my arm. - I was just bidding her, - but she did it of

herself, with that undeliberating simplicity, which show'd it was
out of her head that she had never seen me before. For my own

part, I felt the conviction of consanguinity so strongly, that I
could not help turning half round to look in her face, and see if I

could trace out any thing in it of a family likeness. - Tut! said
I, are we not all relations?

When we arrived at the turning up of the Rue de Gueneguault, I
stopp'd to bid her adieu for good and all: the girl would thank me

again for my company and kindness. - She bid me adieu twice. - I
repeated it as often; and so cordial was the parting between us,

that had it happened any where else, I'm not sure but I should have
signed it with a kiss of charity, as warm and holy as an apostle.

But in Paris, as none kiss each other but the men, - I did, what
amounted to the same thing -

- I bid God bless her.
THE PASSPORT. PARIS.

When I got home to my hotel, La Fleur told me I had been enquired
after by the Lieutenant de Police. - The deuce take it! said I, - I

know the reason. It is time the reader should know it, for in the
order of things in which it happened, it was omitted: not that it

was out of my head; but that had I told it then it might have been
forgotten now; - and now is the time I want it.

I had left London with so much precipitation, that it never enter'd
my mind that we were at war with France; and had reached Dover, and

looked through my glass at the hills beyond Boulogne, before the
idea presented itself; and with this in its train, that there was

no getting there without a passport. Go but to the end of a
street, I have a mortal aversion for returning back no wiser than I

set out; and as this was one of the greatest efforts I had ever
made for knowledge, I could less bear the thoughts of it: so

hearing the Count de - had hired the packet, I begg'd he would take
me in his suite. The Count had some little knowledge of me, so

made little or no difficulty, - only said, his inclination to serve
me could reach no farther than Calais, as he was to return by way

of Brussels to Paris; however, when I had once pass'd there, I
might get to Paris without interruption; but that in Paris I must

make friends and shift for myself. - Let me get to Paris, Monsieur
le Count, said I, - and I shall do very well. So I embark'd, and

never thought more of the matter.
When La Fleur told me the Lieutenant de Police had been enquiring

after me, - the thing instantly recurred; - and by the time La
Fleur had well told me, the master of the hotel came into my room

to tell me the same thing, with this addition to it, that my
passport had been particularly asked after: the master of the hotel

concluded with saying, He hoped I had one. - Not I, faith! said I.
The master of the hotel retired three steps from me, as from an