"I suppose we had better go and get our tickets."
"I suppose so."
But the _bureau_ was closed for the night, and the two took a solitary
walk along the beach. They walked on further than usual in the clear
moonlight, till at last the tutor looked at his watch.
"It's nine o'clock," said he; "we must go back."
"Let's take the country road back."
"It is a mile longer."
"Never mind. It is our last night."
So they struck up by the cliffs, and followed the chalky country road
back to Boulogne.
About two miles from the town the cheery lights of a wayside _auberge_
attracted their attention.
"Let us get some coffee here," said Armstrong.
This solitary tavern rejoiced in the name of "Cafe d'Angleterre," but if
its owner expected thereby to attract the custom of Mr John Bull, he
was singularly mistaken. The chief customers of the place were
labourers and navvies, who by their noisy jargon were evidently innocent
of all pretensions to a foreign tongue.
Seeing two strangers, presumably able to pay ready money for what they
consumed, the old landlord invited his visitors into the bar parlour,
where at his own table he set before them that delightful concoction of
chicory and sifted earth which certain provincial Frenchmen call _cafe_.
And being a gregarious and inquisitive old man, and withal proud of his
tolerable stock of English, he took the liberty of joining them.
"Inglese?" inquired he, with a pantomimic shrug.
"Quite so," said the tutor, putting up his glass, and inspecting the
fellow carefully.
"This is the `Cafe d'Angleterre,'" said the landlord, "but, _helas_! it
is long since the Inglese gentleman come here. They like too well the
great town."
"Ah, Boulogne has grown. Can you remember the place twenty years ago?"
"Can I? I can remember forty years."
"I wonder," broke in Roger, too impatient to allow his tutor to lead up
gradually to the inevitable question, "if you can remember some English
players coming over here about eighteen years ago and acting a play
called _Hamlet_ in English."
The landlord blew a cloud of smoke from his lips, and stared round at
the speaker as if he had been a ghost.
"Why do you ask me that? _'Amlet_! Can I forget it?"
Here was a bolt out of the blue! The tutor's eye-glass dropped with a
clatter against his cup, and Roger fetched a breath half gasp, half
sigh.
"You remember it!" exclaimed he, seizing the man's hand; "do you know,
we have been a fortnight in Boulogne trying to find some one who did!"
"Would not _you_ remember it," replied the Frenchman, with a
gesticulation, "if 'Amlet had put up at your inn and gone away without
paying his bill?"
"Did one of the actors stay here, then?"
"One? There was twenty 'Amlets, and Miladi 'Amlets, and Mademoiselle
'Amlets. They all stay here, _en famille_. The house is full of
'Amlets. The stable is full. They bring with them a castle of 'Amlet,
and a grave of 'Amlet. My poor house was all 'Amlet!"
"And," inquired Mr Armstrong, flushed with the sudden discovery, but as
cool as ever, "you had a pass to see the play, of course?"
"_Mon dieu_! it was all the pay I got. 'Amlet come to my house with his
twenty hungry mouth, and eat me up, flesh and bone. He sleep in my
beds, he sleep on my roof, he sleep in my stable. The place is
'Amlet's. And all my pay is one piece of card bidding me see him play
himself."
"And was it well played?" Asked Mr Armstrong.
"Well played? How do I know? But six persons came to see it--I one--
and in six minutes it is all done. Your English 'Amlet will not play to
the empty bench. He call down the curtain, and bid us go where we
please. Not even will he pay us back our money. Then, when he come to
leave the hall himself, _voila_, he has no money to pay his rent. His
baggage is seized, and 'Amlet fights. _Mon dieu_, there was _une
emeute_ in Boulogne that night; and before day 'Amlet has vanish like
his own ghost, and I am a robbed man; _voila_."
"Very rough on you," said the tutor. "So there was a ghost among the
players?"
"Why no? It would not be _'Amlet_ without."
"Did the ghost stay here too?"
"_Helas_! yes. He eat, and drink, and sleep, and forgets to pay, like
the rest."
"What did you lose by him?" asked Roger, with parched lips.
"Ah, monsieur, I was a Napoleon poorer for every 'Amlet in my house that
night."
Roger put down two sovereigns on the table.
"That is to pay for the ghost," said he, flushing. "He was my brother."
The landlord stared in blank amazement.
"Your brother! Monsieur le Ghost of _'Amlet_ was--_pardieu_!" exclaimed
he, looking hard at his guest, "and he was like you. It was no fault of
his _'Amlet_ did not take the favour, for he play in the first act and
make us all laugh. If the other 'Amlets had been so amusing as him, the
house would have been full--packed. Ha! now you say it, he was a
gentleman, this poor Monsieur le Ghost. He held himself apart from the
noisy company, and sulk in a corner, while they laugh, and drink, and
sing the song. They were afraid of him, and, _mon dieu_! they might
be--for once, when Monsieur Rosencrantz, as I remember, came and threw
some absinthe--my absinthe, messieurs--in his face, Monsieur le Ghost he
knocked him down with a blow that sounded--oh, like a clap of the
thunder. And this pauvre ghost," added the man, "was monsieur's
brother! _Helas_! he was come down very poor--his coat was rags, and
his boots were open to the water of heaven. He eat little. Ah,
monsieur, I have deceived you. He cost me not five franc; for, when I
remember, he ate nothings--he starve himself."
"Was he ill?" asked Armstrong.
"Worse," said the landlord, lowering his voice; "he was in love. I
could see it. She laugh and make the mock at him, and play coquet with
the others before his face. It nearly killed him--this pauvre ghost.
He would have give his hand for a kind glance, but he got it never."
"Who was the girl?" asked Roger.
"But a child, the minx--fifteen, perhaps sixteen, years, no more. She
played the part of a page-boy, and only so because monsieur, her father,
was manage the play. He was Frenchman, this monsieur, but mademoiselle
was English like her mother. _Helas_! monsieur, your brother was deep
in love. But there was no hope for him. A fool could see that."
This was all the host could tell them. He had never heard since of any
member of the ill-fated company. He could introduce them to no one who
remembered their visit. A few there might be who when appealed to might
have recalled the disturbance on the night of the performance, and the
absconding of the players. But who they were and what became of them no
one could say.
On their return to the hotel at Boulogne at midnight they found a
telegram and a letter awaiting them.