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The old proverb, that God sent meats, and the d l cooks, is verified in every kitchen in France. We returned to Quillac's to dinner, which, according to our orders, was composed in the English style, except a French dish or two for Mons. Mangouit. This gentleman now appeared altogether as full-dressed as he had before been in full dishabille.
Left to myself, I returned slowly, and much depressed in spirits, to Quillac's; where, ordering post-horses, I threw myself into my travelling carriage, into which my valet had, by my orders, previously placed my luggage. "Where are you going to, Monsieur?" said the valet. "Au diable!" said I. "Mais les passeports?" said the man.
I took leave of the monks, and travelled with all speed to Paris, and thence to Calais. Reaching Quillac's hotel, I received a shock which, although I apprehended danger, I was not prepared for. It was a letter from Eugenia's agent, announcing her death. She had been seized with a brain fever, and had died at a small town in Norfolk, where she had removed soon after our last unhappy interview.
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