marchand de capotes , Monsieur Poyntz, from whom I can have for a livre as snug a cloak of the French fashion as ever kept a lady from wetting. Tut, Tut! cries Le Fécondateur, tripping in, my friend Monsieur Moore, that most accomplished traveller (I have just cracked a half bottle avec lui in a circle of the best wits of the town), is my authority that in Cape Horn, ventre biche , they have a rain that will wet through any, even the stoutest cloak. A drenching of that violence, he tells me, sans blague , has sent more than one luckless fellow in good earnest posthaste to another world. Pooh! A livre!