the suburbs, the factories, taverns, and gloomy hovels in the debatable
land round Paris are so many points of sunshine in the far distance. The
train is going at full speed. The fields of green or gold are being
unrolled like ribbons before my eyes. Now and again a metallic sound and
a glimpse of columns and advertisements show that we are rushing through
a station in a whirlwind of dust. A flash of light across our path is a
tributary of the river. I am off, well on my way, and no one can stop
me--not Lampron, nor Counsellor Boule, nor yet Plum et. The dream of
years is about to be realized. I am going to see Italy--merely a corner
of it; but what a pleasure even that is, and what unlooked-for luck!

A few days ago, Counsellor Boule called me into his office.

"Monsieur Mouillard, you speak Italian fluently, don't you?"

"Yes, sir." "Would you like a trip at a client's expense?"

"With pleasure, wherever you like."

"To Italy?"

"With very great pleasure."

"I thought so, and gave your name to the court without asking your
consent. It's a commission to examine documents at Milan, to prove some
copies of deeds and other papers, put in by a supposititious Italian heir
to establish his rights to a rather large property. You remember the
case of Zampini against Veldon and others?"

"Quite well."