_RECOVERY--WAITER--VICOMTE--CHÂTEAU--RECEPTION--NIGHT--MORNING--
WORKERS--HEADSTONES--MEMORIES--STONES--EXPLANATIONS--BREAKFAST--
OFF--BACK AGAIN._
[Illustration: "Karascho!" exclaims Daubinet.]
DAUBINET, quite recovered from his fatigue, sings "Blass the Prince of
WAILES" enthusiastically, and at intervals ejaculates queer, uncouth
words in the Russian tongue. Breakfast with Russian tongue. He asks
the waiter for "_minuoschhah karosh caviar_." To which the waiter
adroitly replies, "_parfaitement M'sieu_" and disappears. Returning
ten minutes afterwards, the wily attendant makes no further allusion
to the supposed errand that has taken him out of the room.
Then DAUBINET, remembering that we are literally "here to-day and gone
to-morrow," says we must visit his friend the Vicomte. I cannot catch
the Vicomte's name; I manage to do so for half an hour at a time, and
then it escapes me. As we are in this champagney country, I write it
down as M. le Vicomte DE CHAMPAGNIAC. We are to dine and sleep there.
A Night in a French Château. "But this is another story."
On our arrival at the Château de Quelquechose we are right royally
and heartily received. Delightful evening. _Vive la Compagnie_!
Magnificent view from my bedroom. In the clear moonlight I can see
right away for miles and miles over the Champagne valleys. At 6.30 we
are in the break, and within an hour or so are "All among the barley,"
as the song used to say, which I now apply to "All amongst the
Vineyards." Peasants at work everywhere: picking and sorting. How
they must dislike grapes! Of course they are all teetotallers, and no
more touch a drop of champagne than a grocer eats his own currants,
or a confectioner his own sweetmeats. I suppose the butcher lives
exclusively on fish, and his friend, the neighbouring fishmonger, is
entirely dependent on the butcher for his sustenance, except when game
is in, and then both deal with the gamester or poulterer. There are
some traders in necessaries who can make a fair deal all round. The
only exception to this rule, for which, from personal observation, I
can vouch, is the tobacconist, who is always smoking his own cigars.
Wonderful this extensive plain of vineyards! and what stunted little
stumps with leaves round them are all these vines! Not in it with
our own graceful hops. No hedges or ditches to separate one owner's
property from another's. To each little or big patch of land there is
a white headstone with initials on it, as if somebody had hurriedly
and unostentatiously been buried on the spot where he fell, killed in
the Battle of the Vineyards, by a grape-shot. At first, seeing so many
of these white headstones with initials on each one, I conclude that
it is some peculiar French way of marking distances or laying out
plots, and I find my conclusion is utterly erroneous.
"These white stones," M. VESQUIER. explains, "mark the boundaries of
different properties." Odd! The plain is cut up into little patches,
and champagne-growers, like knowing birds, have popped down, on "here
a bit and there a bit and everywhere a bit" from time to time, so that
one headstone records the fact that "here lies the property of J.M.,"
and within a few feet is another headstone "sacred to the memory of
P. and G.," or P. without the G.; then removed but a step or two is
a stone with a single "A." on it. and a short distance from the road
is "H."--poor letter "H" apparently dropped for ever. Here lie "M.,"
and "M. and C.," and several other heroes whose names recall many a
glorious champagne. And so on, and so on; the initials recurring again
quite unexpectedly, the plots of ground held by the same proprietor
being far apart. But, as it suddenly occurs to me, if these
champagne-growers are all in the same plains for twenty miles or
more round about, all in much the same position, and all the grapes
apparently the same, why isn't it all the same wine?
"_Karascho!_" exclaims DAUBINET, who, under the hot rays of the early
morning sun, is walking in his shirt-sleeves, his coat over his arm,
his hat in one hand, and a big sunshade in the other, "I will tell
you." Then he commences, and except for now and then breaking off into
Russian expletives, and interspersing his discourse with selections
from British national melodies, his explanation is lucid, and the
reasons evident. Soil and sun account for everything; the soil being
varied, and the sun shifty. "_Pou ni my? comprenez-vous?_" he asks.
[Illustration: "Da Karascho! All r-r-right!"]
I do perfectly, at the moment; but subsequently trying to explain the
phenomena scientifically, I find that I have not quite penetrated the
mystery _au fond_. We visit the Wine-press, which (_Happy Thought!_)
would be an appropriate title for a journal devoted entirely to the
wine-growing and wine-vending interests.
"And now," says M. le Vicomte, "we must return to breakfast, or the
sun will be too strong for us."
So back we go to our eleven o'clock _déjeuner_ in a beautifully cool
room, of which repast the sweetest little cray-fish, fresh from the
river, are by no means the worst part of the entertainment. Then
coffee, cigars, and lounge. Yes, there are some things better managed
in France than _chez nous_; and the division of the day between
labour and refreshment is, in my humble opinion, one of them. In the
contriving of dainty dishes out of the simplest materials, the French
seem to hold that everything is good for food in this best of all
possible worlds, if it be only treated on a wise system of variation,
permutation, and combination. We discuss these subjects of the higher
education until arrives the inevitable hour of departure. Let us not
linger on the doorstep. Into the trap again. _Bon voyage! Au revoir!_
And as passing out of the lodge-gate we get a last glimpse of the
party waving adieux to us from the upper terrace, DAUBINET flourishes
his hat, and sings out at the top of his voice, "We're leaving thee in
sorrow, ANNIE," which is more or less appropriate, perhaps; and then,
as the last flutter of a pocket-handkerchief is seen, he finishes
with "And blass the Prince of WAILES!" After which he subsides,
occasionally breaking the silence to sigh aloud, "_O Maman!_" and
thenceforth, for the greater part of the journey to Paris, he slumbers
in a more or less jumpy manner.
_At the Grand Hotel, Paris_.--"Aha!" cries M. le Baron BLUM,--always
in full Blum at the Grand Hotel,--"At last! arrived!" as if he had
expected us for several weeks past,--"How are you? I have your rooms
ready for you!" He must have seen us driving into the courtyard, and
settled our numbers there and then, not a minute ago. It's a great
thing for weary travellers to be welcomed on arrival. No matter
if they're forgotten again the next moment, and not thought of
again until the hour of their departure. It is the welcome that is
everything; it implies so much, and may mean so little. But, at the
Grand, Paris, _Avis aux Messieurs les voyageurs, _"When in doubt,
consult BLUM!" We enjoy a good but expensive dinner at the Maison
Dorée. For myself, I prefer the simple fare at half the price to be
found _chez Noël_, or at some other quiet and moderate restaurants
that I could name. Next morning a brief but welcome breakfast at
Amiens, a tranquil crossing, and we are bidding each other adieu at
the Victoria Station. Music to the situation, "_Home once more_."
Good-bye to my excellent _ami_ DAUBINET, who stays a few hours in
London, and then is off to Russia, Egypt, Iceland, Australia.
"_Da Karascho!_ All r-r-right!"
And so ends a pleasant holiday trip to the Champagne Country, or real
"Poppy-Land."
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