then, in correction, "Qu'est-ce que vous faites donc? Cette malle est à moi".
But I had heard the Fatherland accents; they rejoiced my heart; I turned:
"Sir", said I, appealing to the stranger, without in my distress noticing what he was like, "I cannot speak French. May I entreat you to ask this man what he has done with my trunk?"
Without discriminating, for the moment, what sort of face it was to which my eyes were raised and on which they were fixed, I felt in its expression half-surprise at my appeal and half-doubt of the wisdom of interference.
"Do ask him; I would do as much for you", said I.
I don't know whether he smiled, but he said in a gentlemanly tone—that is to say, a tone not hard nor terrifying,—
"What sort of trunk was yours?"
I described it, including in my description the green ribbon. And forthwith he took the conductor under hand, and I felt, through all the storms of French which followed, that he had raked him fore and aft. Presently he returned to me.
"The fellow avers he was overloaded, and confesses that he removed your trunk after you saw it put on, and has left it behind at Boue-Marine with other parcels; he has promised, however, to forward it to-morrow; the day after, therefore, you will find it safe at this bureau".
"Thank you", said I; but my heart sank.
Meantime what should I do? Perhaps this English gentleman saw the failure of courage in my face; he inquired kindly:
"Have you any friends in this city?"
"No, and I don't know where to go".
There was a little pause, in the course of which, as he turned more fully to the light of a lamp above him, I saw that he was a young, distinguished, and handsome man; he might be a lord, for anything I knew: nature had made him good enough for a prince, I thought. His face was very pleasant; he looked high but not arrogant, manly but not overbearing. I was turning away in the deep consciousness of all absence of claim to look for further help from such a one as he.
"Was all your money in your trunk?" he asked, stopping me.
