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You are, perhaps, as well acquainted with its features as I am. Perhaps you have made love on the ramparts in the moonlight, and had your breakfast at the little restaurant on the jetty. Morning has found you at the English Library in search of the latest gossip; and possibly you have seldom when there missed the two important events of the day—the arrival and departure of the mail boats.

Small as it is, Boulogne circulates more scandal than any town twice its size. It may be an extraordinary marriage, cheating discovered at the card-table, the sudden disappearance of a friend's wife, the elopement of a young lady with a married man, or rumours of a duel about to take place on the Belgian frontier. Something startling is sure to turn up, and natives and foreigners alike enjoy the humours of the carnival quite as much as the people of Paris or Lyons.

The carnival commenced the day following our arrival. The proper thing to do was to hire two fancy costumes, and, duly masked, go to the ball at the theatre in the evening. We selected our dresses with great care. We were, indeed, laughable to look at—I dressed in a Turkish costume, and Peter, capitally got up like a Frenchman of the Paris boulevards. We flattered ourselves, however, that our most intimate friends would not have guessed who we were—feeling safe from detection even from our wives.