THE RHONE IN A RAIN.--THE MAD FRENCHMAN.--SUICIDE A CAPITAL
CRIME IN FRANCE.
The steamboats that run on the Rhone are very remarkable
contrivances. Their builders have only aimed at combining a
maximum of length with a minimum of other qualities, so that
each boat displays an incredible extent of deck with no
particular breadth at all. Five gentlemen took refuge in the
cabin of the _Etoile_, from the drenching rain which fell during
half of their voyage. This was an absurd vessel, that made trips
between Lyons and Avignon. Her accommodations resembled those of
a canal boat, and she was propelled by a couple of paddle-wheels
driven by a Lilliputian engine. It was easy enough for her to go
down the river, as the current took the responsibility of moving
her along; but how she could ever get back it was difficult to
tell.
They were borne onward through some of the fairest scenes on
earth. Ruined towers, ivy-covered castles, thunder-blasted
heights, fertile valleys, luxuriant orchards, terraced slopes,
trellised vineyards, broad plains, bounded by distant mountains,
whose summits were lost in the clouds; such were the successive
charms of the region through which they were passing. Yet though
they were most eloquently described in the letters which Buttons
wrote home to his friends, it must be confessed that they made
but little impression at the time, and indeed were scarcely seen
at all through the vapor-covered cabin windows.
Avignon did not excite their enthusiasm. In vain the guide-book
told them about Petrarch and Laura. The usual raptures were not
forthcoming. In vain the cicerone led them through the old papal
palace. Its sombre walls awakened no emotion. The only effect
produced was on the Senator, who whiled away the hours of early
bed-time by pointing out the superiority of American institutions
to those which reared the prisons which they had visited.
Arles was much more satisfactory. There are more pretty women in
Arles than in any other town of the same size on the Continent.
The Club created an unusual excitement in this peaceful town by
walking slowly through it in Indian file, narrowly scrutinizing
every thing. They wondered much at the numbers of people that
filled the cathedral, all gayly dressed. It was not until after
a long calculation that they found out that it was Sunday.
Buttons kept his memorandum-book in his hand all day, and took
account of all the pretty women whom he saw. The number rose as
high as 729. He would have raised it higher, but unfortunately
an indignant citizen put a stop to it by charging him with
impertinence to his wife.
On the railroad to Marseilles is a famous tunnel. At the last
station before entering the tunnel a gentleman got in. As they
passed through the long and gloomy place there suddenly arose a
most outrageous noise in the car.
It was the new passenger.
Occasionally the light shining in would disclose him, dancing,
stamping, tearing his hair, rolling his eyes, gnashing his
teeth, and cursing.
"Is he crazy?" said Dick.
"Or drunk?" said Buttons.
Lo and behold! just as the train emerged from the tunnel the
passenger made a frantic dash at the window, flung it open, and
before any body could speak or move he was half out.
To spring over half a dozen seats, to land behind him, to seize
his outstretched leg, to jerk him in again, was but the work of
a moment. It was Buttons who did this, and who banged down the
window again.
"Sac-r-r-R-R-Ré!" cried the Frenchman.
"Is it that you are mad?" said Buttons.
"Sacré Bleu!" cried the other. "Who are you that lays hands on me?"
"I saved you from destruction."
"Then, Sir, you have no thanks. Behold me, I'm a desperate man!"
In truth he looked like one. His clothes were all disordered.
His lips were bleeding, and most of his hair was torn out. By
this time the guard had come to the spot. All those in the car
had gathered round. It was a long car, second-class, like the
American.
"M'sieu, how is this? What is it that I see? You endeavor to
kill yourself?"
"Leave me. I am desperate."
"But no. M'sieu, what is it?"
"Listen. I enter the train thinking to go to Avignon. I have
important business there, most important. Suddenly I am struck by a
thought. I find I have mistaken. I am carried to Marseilles. It is
the express train, and I must go all the way. Horror! Despair! Life is
of no use! It is time to resign, it! I die! Accordingly I attempt to
leap from the window, when this gentleman seizes me by the leg and
pulls me in. Behold all."
"M'sieu," said the guard, slowly, and with emphasis, "you have
committed a grave offense. Suicide is a capital crime."
"A capital crime!" exclaimed the Frenchman, turning pale. "Great
Heaven!"
"Yes, Sir. If you leap from the car I shall put you in irons, and hand
you over to the police when we stop."
The Frenchman's pale face grew paler. He became humble. He entreated
the guard's compassion. He begged Buttons to intercede. He had a
family. Moreover he had fought in the wars of his country. He had
warred in Africa. He appealed to the Senator, the Doctor, to Figgs,
to Dick. Finally he became calm, and the train shortly after arrived
at Marseilles.
The last that was seen of him he was rushing frantically about looking
for the return train.
[Illustration: Horror! Despair!]