_ON TOUR--RESTAURATION--METHOD--RAPID
ACT--PATRIOTISM--CHORUS--DINNER--FORWARDS--ENTRÉE--EXIT--DESTINATION._
With DAUBINET I soon acquire the careless habit of speaking any French
that comes into my head, irrespective of grammar, genders, or idioms.
If he doesn't understand it in French he will do so in English, or
_vice versâ_. On this mutual comprehension system we get along as
easily as the express does, and as easily as the boat does too,
to-day,--for we are in luck, the weather is delicious and the sea
propitious,--and so we arrive hungry and happy at the excellent buffet
at the Calais Station, the praises of which I have sung more than once
in my lifetime.
[Illustration]
Far be it from me to draw comparisons, but I if want to start well and
wisely for the Continong, give me the short sea-passage _viâ_ Dover
and the excellent restauration at Calais, with a good twenty-five
minutes allowed for refreshment; _though why this interval shouldn't
be extended to three-quarters of an hour, and less time occupied on
the journey to Paris, I have never yet been able to ascertain._ In the
not very dim and distant future no doubt it will be so. I record the
above observation in italics, in order to attract the attention of all
whom it may and does and ought to concern. Perhaps they'll kindly see
to it.
Our _déjeuner_ at Calais is as good as it usually is at that
haven of Restauration. After the buffeting of the waves, how
sweet is the _buffet_ of the shore. I sit down at once, as an old
Continental-travelling hand, tell the waiter immediately what I
am going to take, and forthwith it is brought; then, in advance,
I command the coffee, and have my French money all ready in an
outside-pocket, so that there shall be no unnecessary delay. All
station-feeding is a fearsome pastime. You are never quite sure
of the trains, and you never quite trust the waiter's most solemn
asseveration to the effect that you have still so many minutes left,
decreasing rapidly from fifteen to five, when, time being up and the
food down, you find yourself hurrying out on to the platform, plunging
recklessly in between the lines, uncertain as to your carriage, and
becoming more and more hot, nervous, and uncomfortable up to the very
last moment, when the stout guard, with the heavy black moustache,
and the familiar bronzed features set off by a cap-band which once was
red, bundles you into your proper place, bangs the door, and you are
off,--for Paris, or wherever your destination may be.
DAUBINET knows the proprietor of the restaurant, likewise the
proprietor's good lady and good children. He has a great deal to
say to them, always by means of working the semaphore with his arms
and hands, as if the persons with whom he excitedly converses were
deaf; and having lost all count of time, besides being in a state
of considerable puzzle as to the existence of his appetite, he is
suddenly informed by the head-waiter,--another of his acquaintances,
for DAUBINET, it appears, is a constant traveller to and fro on this
route, that if he wants, any thing he must take it at once, or he
won't get it at all, unless he chooses to stop there and lose his
train. So DAUBINET ladles some soup into his mouth, and savagely
worries a huge lump of bread: then having gobbled up the soup in a
quarter of a second, and having put away all the bread in another
quarter, he pours a glass of wine into a tumbler out of the bottle
which I have had opened for both of us, adds water, then tosses it
off, wipes his lips with the napkin which he bangs down on the table,
and, with his hat and coat on, his small bag in his hand, and quite
prepared to resume the journey, he cries, "_Allons! Petzikoff!_" (or
some such word, which I suppose to be either Russian or an ejaculation
quite new and original, but _à la Russe_, and entirely his own
invention), with the cheery and enthusiastic addition of, "Blass the
Prince of WAILES!"
"By all means," I cordially respond, for we are on a foreign soil,
where loyalty to our Royal Family is no longer a duty only, but
also a mark of patriotism, which should ever distinguish the true
Briton,--though, by the way, now I think of it, DAUBINET is a lively
Gaul. Subsequently, observing my friend DAUBINET, I find that he is
especially English in France, and peculiarly French in England. On
what is to me foreign, but to him his own native soil, he is always
bursting out into snatches of our British National Anthem, or he
sings the line above quoted. In France he will insist on talking
about London, England, Ireland, Scotland, with imitations in slang or
of brogue, as the case may be, on every possible or even impossible
opportunity; and, when the subject of conversation does not afford
him any chance for his interpolations, then, for a time, he will "lay
low," like. Brer Fox, only to startle us with some sudden outbursts
of song, generally selected from the popular English Melodies of a
byegone period, such as "_My Pretty Jane_," "_My Love is like a red,
red Rose_," or "_Good-bye, Sweetheart, good-bye_," and such-like
musical reminiscences, invariably finishing with a quotation from the
National Anthem, "_Rule Britannia_," or "Blass the Prince of WAILES!"
He is a travelling chorus.
We stop--I don't know where, as I trust entirely to my guide and
fellow-traveller--for a good twenty minutes' stuff, nominally dinner,
_en route_, about seven o'clock. It is the usual rush; the usual
indecision; the usual indigestion. DAUBINET does more execution among
the eatables and drinkables in five minutes than I can manage in the
full time allotted to refreshment; and not only this, but he finds
plenty of time for talking nonsense to one of the nicest-looking
waitresses. Of course, he positively refuses to speak a word of his
own native language, but gives his orders in English, Spanish, and
Russian, to the despair of all the attendants, with the exception of
the pretty waiting-maid, to whom he addresses himself in colloquial
French. She quite enters into the joke; can give and take as
pleasantly as possible; can also fetch and carry; and when, finally,
DAUBINET _en bon prince_ rewards her intelligence with a two-franc
piece, her bright smile, and her courteous "_Merci beaucoup,
Monsieur_," prove once more that she can take as well as give,--nay,
even better, and yet leave the donor her debtor. "_Da Karascho!_ Yes,
all right! _Montez donc!_" cries my mercurial friend, hurrying to
the train; then, as he once more settles himself in the compartment,
he sings "Rule Britannia! Blass the Prince of WAILES! O Maman!" and
before I have lit my after-dinner cigar, he has made himself quite
comfortable, lying at full length, and is fast asleep. So am I soon.
When I awake, it is night; pitch-dark, and very cold. We are stopping
at some station. A stout Frenchman enters our carriage; not that there
is anything remarkable about his stoutness, as it seems to me that the
majority of middle-class and middle-aged Frenchmen, and Frenchwomen,
too, are all, more or less, of considerable corpulence.
[Illustration]
The new arrival recognises DAUBINET, and salutes him. DAUBINET warmly
acknowledges the recognition, and in a few moments they are engaged
in an animated conversation, one commencing his reply before the other
has finished his question, neither permitting the other to complete
a sentence, whether interrogatory or declaratory; so that, during the
greater part of their conversation,--which lasts till, thank goodness,
the stranger has to get out, which he does at the next station, and
disappears in the darkness,--I can only pick up a word or half a
sentence here and there, and, in a general way, wonder why they become
so earnest and emphatic about the most ordinary topics. For an English
listener, however, it is an excellent lesson in colloquial French;
only I cannot help wishing that they would take the "_tempo_" just a
little slower, and that their tone were not necessarily up to concert
pitch, in order to keep itself well above the running accompaniment
of railway-wheels, which seems to fit all modes of counting from two
to sixteen in a bar. At last the train stops, the dialogue becomes
jerky, our companion salutes us politely, wishes us "_bon voyage_" and
descends.
After his departure, I ask DAUBINET, "Who is your friend?" as I should
like to know the reason of DAUBINET not having introduced us. His
reply at once resolves all my doubts and difficulties on the subject;
it is simply, "Heaven knows! He is a nice fellow. I have met him
_quelque part. Ah! v'là!_" He rushes to the window. "Hi! hi! Guard!
Conducteur!" The Conducteur appears, and informs us that we descend at
the next station, and, after that, in another five minutes we shall be
at Reims.
And so we are. Reims at last! Not brilliant is Reims on this dark
night. There are several omnibuses and other vehicles waiting to
take the very few passengers who alight from the train, and who, it
appears, as a rule, prefer to walk. Having no baggage beyond a few
bags and a small portmanteau which travel with us in our compartment,
and which the porter can wheel on a truck, or indeed carry if he
chooses, we are soon in the 'bus, and rattling over the stones to the
Hotel.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "NEB'LAR (HIC) 'POTHESIS."
_Elderly Gentleman_ (_overcome by gravitation_). "'ORRIGHT,
INSPECTRUM. BEEN READING SPEESH--PRES'DENT BRI'SH-SOSHIASHLEM.
SHPLENDID SPEESH! I'M IN 'UNIQUE POSISHN 'F (HIC) ABSOLUTE IMM'BILITY
IN MIDSHT OF WHIRLING 'N DRIFTING SUNS, 'N SYSHTEMS 'F SUNS.' GOOD OLD
HUGGINS!!"]
* * * * *