Captain Ryecroft takes a through ticket for Paris, without thought of
breaking journey, and in due time reaches Boulogne. Glad to get out of
the detestable packet, little better than a ferry-boat, which plies
between Folkestone and the French seaport, he loses not a moment in
scaling the equally detestable gang-ladder by which alone he can escape.
Having set foot upon French soil, represented by a rough cobble-stone
pavement, he bethinks of passport and luggage--how he will get the
former _vised_ and the latter looked after with the least trouble to
himself. It is not his first visit to France, nor is he unacquainted
with that country's customs; therefore knows that a "tip" to _sergent de
ville_ or _douanier_ will clear away the obstructions in the shortest
possible time--quicker if it be a handsome one. Peeling in his pockets
for a florin or a half-crown, he is accosted by a voice familiar and of
friendly tone.
"Captain Ryecroft!" it exclaims in a rich rolling brogue, as of Galway.
"Is it yourself? By the powers of Moll Kelly, and it is."
"Major Mahon!"
"That same, old boy. Give us a grip of your fist, as on that night when
you pulled me out of the ditch at Delhi, just in time to clear the
bayonets of the pandys. A nate thing, and a close shave, wasn't it?
But's what brought you to Boulogne?"
The question takes the traveller aback. He is not prepared to explain
the nature of his journey, and with a view to evasion he simply points
to the steamer, out of which the passengers are still swarming.
"Come, old comrade!" protests the Major, good-naturedly, "that won't do;
it isn't satisfactory for bosom friends, as we've been, and still are, I
trust. But, maybe, I make too free, asking your business in Boulogne?"
"Not at all, Mahon. I have no business in Boulogne; I'm on the way to
Paris."
"Oh! a pleasure trip, I suppose."
"Nothing of the kind. There's no pleasure for me in Paris or anywhere
else."
"Aha!" ejaculated the Major, struck by the words, and their despondent
tone, "what's this, old fellow? Something wrong?"
"Oh, not much--never mind."
The reply is little satisfactory. But seeing that further allusion to
private matters might not be agreeable, the Major continues,
apologetically--
"Pardon me, Ryecroft. I've no wish to be inquisitive; but you have
given me reason to think you out of sorts, somehow. It isn't your
fashion to be low-spirited, and you shan't be, so long as you're in my
company--if I can help it."
"It's very kind of you, Mahon; and for the short time I'm to be with you
I'll do the best I can to be cheerful. It shouldn't be a great effort.
I suppose the train will be starting in a few minutes?"
"What train?"
"For Paris."
"You're not going to Paris now--not this night?"
"I am, straight on."
"Neither straight nor crooked, _ma bohil_!"
"I must."
"Why must you? If you don't expect pleasure there, for what should you
be in such haste to reach it? Bother, Ryecroft! you'll break your
journey here, and stay a few days with me? I can promise you some
little amusement. Boulogne isn't such a dull place just now. The smash
of Agra and Masterman's, with Overend and Gurney following suite, has
sent hither a host of old Indians, both soldiers and civilians. No
doubt you'll find many friends among them. There are lots of pretty
girls, too--I don't mean natives, but our countrywomen--to whom I'll
have much pleasure in presenting you."
"Not for the world, Mahon--not one! I have no desire to extend my
acquaintance in that way."
"What, turned hater, women too. Well, leaving the fair sex on one side,
there's half a dozen of the other here--good fellows as ever stretched
legs on mahogany. They're strangers to you, I think; but will be
delighted to know you, and do their best to make Boulogne agreeable.
Come, old boy. You'll stay? Say the word."
"I would, Major, and with pleasure, were it any other time. But, I
confess, just now I'm not in the mood for making new acquaintance--least
of all among my countrymen.--To tell the truth, I'm going to Paris
chiefly with a view of avoiding them."
"Nonsense! You're not the man to turn _solitaire_, like Simon Stylites,
and spend the rest of your days on the top of a stone pillar! Besides,
Paris is not the place for that sort of thing. If you're really
determined on keeping out of company for awhile--I won't ask why--remain
with me, and we'll take strolls along the sea beach, pick up pebbles,
gather shells, and make love to mermaids, or the Boulognese fish-fags,
if you prefer it. Come, Ryecroft, don't deny me. It's so long since
we've had a day together, I'm dying to talk over old times--recall our
_camaraderie_ in India."
For the first time in forty-eight hours Captain Ryecroft's countenance
shows an indication of cheerfulness--almost to a smile, as he listens to
the rattle of his jovial friend, all the pleasanter from its _patois_
recalling childhood's happy days. And as some prospect of distraction
from his sad thoughts--if not a restoration of happiness--is held out by
the kindly invitation, he is half inclined to accept it. What
difference whether he find the grave of his griefs in Paris or
Boulogne--if find it he can?
"I'm booked to Paris," he says mechanically, and as if speaking to
himself.
"Have you a through ticket?" asks the Major, in an odd way.
"Of course I have."
"Let me have a squint at it?" further questions the other, holding out
his hand.
"Certainly. Why do you wish that?"
"To see if it will allow you to shunt yourself here."
"I don't think it will. In fact, I know it don't. They told me so at
Charing Cross."
"Then they told you what wasn't true. For it does. See here!"
What the Major calls upon him to look at are some bits of pasteboard,
like butterflies, fluttering in the air, and settling down over the
copestone of the dock. They are the fragments of the torn ticket.
"Now, old boy! You're booked for Boulogne."
The melancholy smile, up to that time on Ryecroft's face, broadens into
a laugh at the stratagem employed to detain him. With cheerfulness for
the time restored, he says:
"Well, Major, by that you've cost me at at least one pound sterling.
But I'll make you recoup it in boarding and lodging me for--possibly a
week."
"A month--a year, if you should like your lodgings and will stay in
them. I've got a snug little compound in the Rue Tintelleries, with
room to swing hammocks for us both; besides a bin or two of wine, and,
what's better, a keg of the `raal crayther.' Let's along and have a
tumbler of it at once. You'll need it to wash the channel spray out of
your throat. Don't wait for your luggage. These Custom-house gentry
all know me, and will send it directly after. Is it labelled?"
"It is; my name's on everything."
"Let me have one of your cards." The card is handed to him. "There,
Monsieur," he says, turning to a _douanier_, who respectfully salutes,
"take this, and see that all the _baggage_ bearing the name on it be
kept safely till called for. My servant will come for it. _Garcon_!"
This to the driver of a _voiture_, who, for some time viewing them with
expectant eye, makes response by a cut of his whip, and brisk approach
to the spot where they are standing.
Pushing Captain Ryecroft into the back, and following himself, the Major
gives the French Jehu his address, and they are driven off over the
rough, rib-cracking cobbles of Boulogne.
Volume Two, Chapter XX.