Our consumption of wine at dinner had been, like Mr. Poe's
conversation with his soul, "serious and sober." In the cellar no drop
had passed our mouths. I was alert as a lark when I entered: I came
out in a species of voluptuous dream.

All the band conducted me to the railway-station, and I was very much
touched with the attention. It was who should carry my botany-box, who
should set my cap straight, who should give me the most precise and
statistical information about the train which returned to Paris, with
a stop at Noisy; the while, Ophelia-like, I chanted snatches of old
songs, and mingled together in a tender reverie my recollections
of Mary Ashburton, my coming Book and my theories of Progressive
Geography.

"Take this shawl: the night will be chilly before you get to the
city."

"Don't let them carry you beyond Noisy."

"Come back to Épernay every May-day: never forget the feast of Saint
Athanasius."

"Be sure you get into the right train: here is the car. Come, man,
bundle up! they are closing the barrier."

I was perfectly melted by so much sympathy. "Adieu," I said, "my dear
champanions--"

I turned into an excellent car, first class, and fell asleep directly.