CALAIS.
It was upon a lovely evening in autumn, as the Dover steam-boat rounded
the wooden pier at Calais, amid a fleet of small boats filled with
eager and anxious faces, soliciting, in every species of bad English
and “patois” [vulgar] French, the attention and patronage of the
passengers.
“Hotel de Bain, mi lor’.”
“Hotel d’Angleterre,” said another, in a voice of the most imposing
superiority. “C’est superbe—pretty well.”
“Hotel du Nord, votre Excellence—remise de poste and ‘delays’ (quere
relays) at all hours.”
“Commissionaire, mi ladi,” sung out a small shrill treble from the
midst of a crowded cock-boat, nearly swamped beneath our paddle-wheel.
What a scene of bustle, confusion, and excitement does the deck of a
steamer present upon such an occasion. Every one is running hither or
thither. “Sauve qui peut” is now the watch-word; and friendships, that
promised a life-long endurance only half an hour ago, find here a
speedy dissolution. The lady who slept all night upon deck, enveloped
in the folds of your Astracan cloak, scarcely deigns an acknowledgment
of you, as she adjusts her ringlets before the looking-glass over the
stove in the cabin. The polite gentleman, that would have flown for a
reticule or a smelling-bottle upon the high seas, won’t leave his
luggage in the harbour; and the gallantry and devotion that stood the
test of half a gale of wind and a wet jacket, is not proof when the
safety of a carpet-bag or the security of a “Mackintosh” is concerned.
And thus here, as elsewhere, is prosperity the touchstone of good
feeling. All the various disguises which have been assumed, per
viaggio, are here immediately abandoned, and, stripped of the
travelling costume of urbanity and courtesy, which they put on for the
voyage, they stand forth in all the unblushing front of selfishness and
self-interest.
Some tender scenes yet find their place amid the debris of this chaotic
state. Here may be seen a careful mother adjusting innumerable shawls
and handkerchiefs round the throat of a sea-green young lady with a
cough; her maid is at the same instant taking a tender farewell of the
steward in the after-cabin.
Here is a very red-faced and hot individual, with punch-coloured
breeches and gaiters, disputing “one brandy too much” in his bill, and
vowing that the company shall hear of it when he returns to England.
There, a tall, elderly woman, with a Scotch-grey eye, and a sharp
cheek-bone, is depositing within her muff various seizable articles,
that, until now, had been lying quietly in her trunk. Yonder, that
raw-looking young gentleman, with the crumpled frock-coat, and loose
cravat, and sea-sick visage, is asking every one “if they think he may
land without a passport.” You scarcely recognise him for the
cigar-smoking dandy of yesterday, that talked as if he had lived half
his life on the continent. While there, a rather pretty girl is looking
intently at some object in the blue water, beside the rudder post. You
are surprised you cannot make it out; but then, she has the advantage
of you, for the tall, well-looking man, with the knowing whiskers, is
evidently whispering something in her ear.
“Steward, this is not my trunk—mine was a leather—”
“All the ‘leathers’ are gone in the first boat, sir.”
“Most scandalous way of doing business.”
“Trouble you for two-and-sixpence, sir.”
“There’s Matilda coughing again,” says a thin, shrewish woman, with a
kind of triumphant scowl at her better half; “but you would have her
wear that thin shawl!”
“Whatever may be the fault of the shawl, I fancy no one will reproach
her ancles for thinness,” murmurs a young Guard’s man, as he peeps up
the companion-ladder.
Amid all the Babel of tongues, and uproar of voices, the thorough bass
of the escape steam keeps up its infernal thunders, till the very brain
reels, and, sick as you have been of the voyage, you half wish yourself
once more at sea, if only to have a moment of peace and tranquillity.
Numbers now throng the deck who have never made their appearance
before. Pale, jaundiced, and crumpled, they have all the sea-sick look
and haggard cheek of the real martyr—all except one, a stout, swarthy,
brown-visaged man, of about forty, with a frame of iron, and a voice
like the fourth string of a violincello. You wonder why he should have
taken to his bed: learn, then, that he is his Majesty’s courier from
the foreign office, going with despatches to Constantinople, and that
as he is not destined to lie down in a bed for the next fourteen days,
he is glad even of the narrow resemblance to one, he finds in the berth
of a steam-boat. At length you are on shore, and marched off in a long
string, like a gang of convicts to the Bureau de l’octroi, and here is
begun an examination of the luggage, which promises, from its
minuteness, to last for the three months you destined to spend in
Switzerland. At the end of an hour you discover that the soi disant
commissionaire will transact all this affair for a few francs; and,
after a tiresome wait in a filthy room, jostled, elbowed, and trampled
upon, by boors with sabots, you adjourn to your inn, and begin to feel
that you are not in England.
Our little party had but few of the miseries here recounted to contend
with. My “savoir faire,” with all modesty be it spoken, has been long
schooled in the art and practice of travelling; and while our less
experienced fellow-travellers were deep in the novel mysteries of
cotton stockings and petticoats, most ostentatiously displayed upon
every table of the Bureau, we were comfortably seated in the handsome
saloon of the Hotel du Nord, looking out upon a pretty grass plot,
surrounded with orange trees, and displaying in the middle a jet d’eau
about the size of a walking stick.
“Now, Mr. Lorrequer,” said Mrs. Bingham, as she seated herself by the
open window, “never forget how totally dependent we are upon your kind
offices. Isabella has discovered already that the French of
Mountjoy-square, however intelligible in that neighbourhood, and even
as far as Mount-street, is Coptic and Sanscrit here; and as for myself,
I intend to affect deaf and dumbness till I reach Paris, where I hear
every one can speak English a little.”
“Now, then, to begin my functions,” said I, as I rung for the waiter,
and ran over in my mind rapidly how many invaluable hints for my new
position my present trip might afford me, “always provided” (as the
lawyers say,) that Lady Jane Callonby might feel herself tempted to
become my travelling companion, in which case—But, confound it, how I
am castle-building again. Meanwhile, Mrs. Bingham is looking as hungry
and famished as though she would eat the waiter. Ha! this is the
“carte.”
“Allons faire petit souper.”
“Cotelettes d’Agneau.”
“Maionnaise d’homard.”
“Perdreaux rouges aux truffes—mark that, aux truffes.”
“Gelee au maraschin.”
“And the wine, sir,” said the waiter, with a look of approval at my
selection, “Champagne—no other wine, sir?”
“No,” said I, “Champagne only. Frappe de glace, of course,” I added,
and the waiter departed with a bow that would have graced St. James’s.
As long as our immaterial and better part shall be doomed to keep
company with its fleshy tabernacle, with all its attendant miseries of
gout and indigestion, how much of our enjoyment in this world is
dependent upon the mere accessory circumstances by which the business
of life is carried on and maintained, and to despise which is neither
good policy nor sound philosophy. In this conclusion a somewhat long
experience of the life of a traveller has fully established me. And no
where does it press more forcibly upon the mind than when first arrived
in a continental inn, after leaving the best hotels of England still
fresh in your memory. I do not for a moment dispute the very great
superiority in comfort of the latter, by which I would be understood to
mean all those resemblances to one’s own home which an English hotel so
eminently possesses, and every other one so markedly wants; but I mean
that in contrivances to elevate the spirit, cheer the jaded and tired
wayfarer by objects which, however they may appeal to the mere senses,
seem, at least, but little sensual, give me a foreign inn; let me have
a large spacious saloon, with its lofty walls and its airy, large-paned
windows, (I shall not object if the cornices and mouldings be gilded,
because such is usually the case,)—let the sun and heat of a summer’s
day come tempered through the deep lattices of a well-fitting
“jalousie,” bearing upon them the rich incense of a fragrant orange
tree in blossom—and the sparkling drops of a neighbouring fountain, the
gentle plash of which is faintly audible amid the hum of the
drone-bee—let such be the “agremens” without—while within, let the more
substantial joys of the table await, in such guise as only a French
cuisine can present them—give me these, I say, and I shall never sigh
for the far-famed and long-deplored comforts of a box in a coffee-room,
like a pew in a parish church, though certainly not so well cushioned,
and fully as dull, with a hot waiter and a cold beefsteak—the only
thing higher than your game being your bill, and the only thing less
drinkable than your port being the porter.
With such exotic notions, figures vous, my dear reader, whether or not
I felt happy as I found myself seated between my two fair friends doing
the honours of a little supper, and assisting the exhilaration of our
champagne by such efforts of wit as, under favourable circumstances
like these, are ever successful—and which, being like the foaming
liquid which washes them down, to be swallowed without waiting, are
ever esteemed good, from the excitement that results, and never
seriously canvassed for any more sterling merit. Nothing ever makes a
man so agreeable as the belief that he is so: and certainly my fair
companions appeared to have the most excellent idea of my powers in
that respect; and I fancy, that I made more bon mots, hit off more
epigrams, and invented more choice incidents on that happy evening,
than, if now remembered, would suffice to pay my tailor’s bill, when
collated for Bentley’s Miscellany, and illustrated by Cruikshank—alas!
that, like the good liquor that seasoned them, both are gone by, and I
am left but to chronicle their memory of the fun, in dulness, and
counterfeit the effervescence of the grape juice, by soda water. One
thing, however, is certain—we formed a most agreeable party; and if a
feeling of gloom ever momentarily shot through my mind, it was, that
evenings like these came so rarely in this work-a-day world—that each
such should be looked on, as our last.
If I had not already shown myself up to my reader as a garcon volage of
the first water, perhaps I should now hesitate about confessing that I
half regretted the short space during which it should be my privilege
to act as the guide and mentor of my two friends. The impetuous haste
which I before felt necessary to exercise in reaching Paris
immediately, was not tempered by prudent thoughts about travelling at
night, and reflections about sun-stroke by day; and even moments most
devoted to the object of my heart’s aspirations were fettered by the
very philosophic idea, that it could never detract from the pleasure of
the happiness that awaited me, if I travelled on the primrose path to
its attainment. I argued thus: if Lady Jane be true—if—if, in a word, I
am destined to have any success in the Callonby family, then will a day
or two more not risk it. My present friends I shall, of course, take
leave of at Paris, where their own acquaintances await them; and, on
the other hand, should I be doomed once more to disappointment, I am
equally certain I should feel no disposition to form a new attachment.
Thus did I reason, and thus I believed; and though I was a kind of
consultation opinion among my friends in “suits of love,” I was really
then unaware that at no time is a man so prone to fall in love as
immediately after his being jilted. If common sense will teach us not
to dance a bolero upon a sprained ancle, so might it also convey the
equally important lesson, not to expose our more vital and inflammatory
organ to the fire the day after its being singed.
Reflections like these did not occur to me at this moment; besides that
I was “going the pace” with a forty-horse power of agreeability that
left me little time for thought—least of all, if serious. So stood
matters. I had just filled our tall slender glasses with the creaming
and “petillan” source of wit and inspiration, when the loud crack,
crack, crack of a postillion’s whip, accompanied by the shaking trot of
a heavy team, and the roll of wheels, announced a new arrival. “Here
they come,” said I, “only look at them—four horses and one postillion,
all apparently straggling and straying after their own fancy, but yet
going surprisingly straight notwithstanding. See how they come through
that narrow archway—it might puzzle the best four-in-hand in England to
do it better.”
“What a handsome young man, if he had not those odious moustaches. Why,
Mr. Lorrequer, he knows you: see, he is bowing to you.”
“Me! Oh! no. Why, surely, it must be—the devil—it is Kilkee, Lady
Jane’s brother. I know his temper well. One five minutes’ observation
of my present intimacy with my fair friends, and adieu to all hopes for
me of calling Lord Callonby my father-in-law. There is not therefore, a
moment to lose.”
As these thoughts revolved through my mind, the confusion I felt had
covered my face with scarlet; and, with a species of blundering apology
for abruptly leaving them for a moment, I ran down stairs only in time
sufficient to anticipate Kilkee’s questions as to the number of my
apartments, to which he was desirous of proceeding at once. Our first
greetings over, Kilkee questioned me as to my route—adding, that his
now was necessarily an undecided one, for if his family happened not to
be at Paris, he should be obliged to seek after them among the German
watering-places. “In any case, Mr. Lorrequer,” said he, “we shall hunt
them in couples. I must insist upon your coming along with me.”
“Oh! that,” said I, “you must not think of. Your carriage is a coupé,
and I cannot think of crowding you.”
“Why, you don’t seriously want to affront me, I hope, for I flatter
myself that a more perfect carriage for two people cannot be built.
Hobson made it on a plan of my own, and I am excessively proud of it, I
assure you. Come, that matter is decided—now for supper. Are there many
English here just now?—By-the-by, those new ‘natives’ I think I saw you
standing with on the balcony—who are they?”
“Oh! the ladies—oh! Yes, people I came over with—”
“One was pretty, I fancied. Have you supped? Just order something, will
you—meanwhile, I shall write a few lines before the post
leaves.”—Saying which, he dashed up stairs after the waiter, and left
me to my meditations.
“This begins to be pleasant,” thought I, as the door closed, leaving me
alone in the “salon.” In circumstances of such moment, I had never felt
so nonplussed as now, how to decline Kilkee’s invitation, without
discovering my intimacy with the Binghams—and yet I could not, by any
possibility, desert them thus abruptly. Such was the dilemma. “I see
but one thing for it,” said I, gloomily, as I strode through the
coffee-room, with my head sunk and my hands behind my back—“I see but
one thing left—I must be taken ill to-night, and not be able to leave
my bed in the morning—a fever—a contagious fever—blue and red spots all
over me—and be raving wildly before breakfast time; and if ever any
discovery takes place of my intimacy above stairs, I must only
establish it as a premonitory symptom of insanity, which seized me in
the packet. And now for a doctor that will understand my case, and
listen to reason, as they would call it in Ireland.” With this idea
uppermost, I walked out into the court-yard to look for a
commissionaire to guide me in my search. Around on every side of me
stood the various carriages and voitures of the hotel and its inmates,
to the full as distinctive and peculiar in character as their owners.
“Ah! there is Kilkee’s,” said I, as my eye lighted upon the
well-balanced and elegant little carriage which he had been only with
justice encomiumizing. “It is certainly perfect, and yet I’d give a
handful of louis-d’ors it was like that venerable cabriolet yonder,
with the one wheel and no shafts. But, alas! these springs give little
hope of a break down, and that confounded axle will outlive the
patentee. But still, can nothing be done?—eh? Come, the thought is a
good one—I say, garcon, who greases the wheels of the carriage here?”
“C’est moi, monsieur,” said a great oaf, in wooden shoes and a blouse.
“Well, then, do you understand these?” said I, touching the patent
axle-boxes with my cane.
He shook his head.
“Then who does, here?”
“Ah! Michael understands them perfectly.”
“Then bring him here,” said I.
In a few minutes, a little shrewd old fellow, with a smith’s apron,
made his appearance, and introduced himself as M. Michael. I had not
much difficulty in making him master of my plan, which was, to detach
one of the wheels as if for the purpose of oiling the axle, and
afterwards render it incapable of being replaced—at least for
twenty-four hours.
“This is my idea,” said I; “nevertheless, do not be influenced by me.
All I ask is, disable the carriage from proceeding to-morrow, and here
are three louis-d’ors at your service.”
“Soyez bien tranquille, monsieur, mi lor’ shall spend to-morrow in
Calais, if I know any thing of my art”—saying which he set out in
search of his tools, while I returned to the salon with my mind
relieved, and fully prepared to press the urgency of my reaching Paris
without any delay.
“Well, Mr. Lorrequer,” said Kilkee, as I entered, “here is supper
waiting, and I am as hungry as a wolf.”
“Oh! I beg pardon—I’ve been getting every thing in readiness for our
start to-morrow morning, for I have not told you how anxious I am to
get to Paris before the 8th—some family business, which requires my
looking after, compelling me to do so.”
“As to that, let your mind be at rest, for I shall travel to-morrow
night if you prefer it. Now for the Volnay. Why you are not drinking
your wine. What do you say to our paying our respects to the fair
ladies above stairs? I am sure the petits soins you have practised
coming over would permit the liberty.”
“Oh! hang it, no. There’s neither of them pretty, and I should rather
avoid the risk of making a regular acquaintance with them” said I.
“As you like, then—only, as you’ll not take any wine, let us have a
stroll through the town.”
After a short stroll through the town, in which Kilkee talked the
entire time, but of what I know not, my thoughts being upon my own
immediate concerns, we returned to the hotel. As we entered the
porte-couchere, my friend Michael passed me, and as he took off his hat
in salutation, gave me one rapid glance of his knowing eye that
completely satisfied me that Hobson’s pride in my friend’s carriage had
by that time received quite sufficient provocation to throw him into an
apoplexy.
“By-the-by,” said I, “let us see your carriage. I am curious to look at
it”—(and so I was.)
“Well, then come along, this way; they have placed it under some of
these sheds, which they think coach-houses.”
I followed my friend through the court till we arrived near the fatal
spot; but before reaching, he had caught a glimpse of the mischief, and
shouted out a most awful imprecation upon the author of the deed which
met his eye. The fore-wheel of the coupé had been taken from the axle,
and in the difficulty of so doing, from the excellence of the
workmanship, two of the spokes were broken—the patent box was a mass of
rent metal, and the end of the axle turned downwards like a hoe.
I cannot convey any idea of poor Kilkee’s distraction; and, in reality,
my own was little short of it; for the wretch had so far out-stripped
my orders, that I became horrified at the cruel destruction before me.
We both, therefore, stormed in the most imposing English and French,
first separately and then together. We offered a reward for the
apprehension of the culprit, whom no one appeared to know, although, as
it happened, every one in a large household was aware of the
transaction but the proprietor himself. We abused all—innkeeper,
waiters, ostlers, and chambermaids, collectively and
individually—condemned Calais as a den of iniquity, and branded all
Frenchmen as rogues and vagabonds. This seemed to alleviate
considerably my friend’s grief, and excite my thirst—fortunately,
perhaps for us; for if our eloquence had held out much longer, I am
afraid our auditory might have lost their patience; and, indeed, I am
quite certain if our French had not been in nearly as disjointed a
condition as the spokes of the caleche, such must have been the case.
“Well, Mr. Lorrequer, I suppose, then, we are not destined to be
fellow-travellers—for if you must go to-morrow—”
“Alas! It is imperative,” said I.
“Then in any case, let us arrange where we shall meet, for I hope to be
in Paris the day after you.”
“I’ll stop at Meurice.”
“Meurice, be it,” said he, “so now good night, till we meet in Paris.”