It was a weak delusion. When I stretched out my limbs it wasonly to find that the ordinary conveniences for making severalpeople distinctly uncomfortable were distributed throughoutmy individual frame. At last， resting my arms on the straps， bydint of much gymnastic effort I became sufficiently composedto be aware of a more refined species of torture. The springs ofthe stage， rising and falling regularly， produced a rhythmicalbeat which began to absorb my attention painfully. Slowlythis thumping merged into a senseless echo of the mysteriousfemale of the hotel parlor， and shaped itself into this awfuland benumbing axiom—“Praise-to-the-face-is-open-disgrace.
Praise-to-the-face-is-open-disgrace.” Inequalities of the roadonly quickened its utterance or drawled it to an exasperatinglength.
It was of no use to consider the statement seriously. It was ofno use to except to it indignantly. It was of no use to recall themany instances where praise to the face had redounded to theeverlasting honor of praiser and bepraised； of no use to dwellsentimentally on modest genius and courage lifted up andstrengthened by open commendation； of no use to except tothe mysterious female， to picture her as rearing a thin-bloodedgeneration on selfish and mechanically repeated axioms—allthis failed to counteract the monotonous repetition of thissentence. There was nothing to do but to give in—and I wasabout to accept it weakly， as we too often treat other illusionsof darkness and necessity， for the time being， when I becameaware of some other annoyance that had been forcing itselfupon me for the last few moments. How quiet the driver was！
Was there any driver？ Had I any reason to suppose thathe was not lying gagged and bound on the roadside， and thehighwayman with blackened face who did the thing so quietlydriving me—whither？ The thing is perfectly feasible. Andwhat is this fancy now being jolted out of me？ A story？ It’s ofno use to keep it back—particularly in this abysmal vehicle，and here it comes： I am a Marquis—a French Marquis； French，because the peerage is not so well known， and the countryis better adapted to romantic incident—a Marquis， becausethe democratic reader delights in the nobility. My name issomething LIGNY. I am coming from Paris to my country seatat St. Germain. It is a dark night， and I fall asleep and tell myhonest coachman， Andre， not to disturb me， and dream of anangel. The carriage at last stops at the chateau. It is so darkthat when I alight I do not recognize the face of the footmanwho holds the carriage door. But what of that？—PESTE！ Iam heavy with sleep. The same obscurity also hides the oldfamiliar indecencies of the statues on the terrace； but there isa door， and it opens and shuts behind me smartly. Then I findmyself in a trap， in the presence of the brigand who has quietlygagged poor Andre and conducted the carriage thither. There isnothing for me to do， as a gallant French Marquis， but to say，“PARBLEU！” draw my rapier， and die valorously！ I am founda week or two after outside a deserted cabaret near the barrier，with a hole through my ruffled linen and my pockets stripped.
No； on second thoughts， I am rescued—rescued by the angelI have been dreaming of， who is the assumed daughter of thebrigand but the real daughter of an intimate friend.