_REIMS--NIGHT--STREETS--ARRIVAL--LION
D'OR--DEPRESSION--LANDLADY--BOOTS--CATHEDRAL--LONELINESS--BED._
It is just ten o'clock. Reims seems to be in bed and fast asleep,
except for the presence in the streets of a very few persons, official
and unofficial, of whom the former are evidently on the alert as to
the movements, slouching and uncertain, of the latter.
We drive under ancient Roman Arch; DAUBINET tells me its history in
a vague kind of way, breaking off suddenly to say that I shall see it
to-morrow, when, so he evidently wishes me to infer, the Roman Arch
will speak for itself. Then we drive past a desolate-looking Museum.
I believe it is a Museum, though DAUBINET's information is a trifle
uncertain on this point.
We pass a theatre, brilliantly illuminated. I see posters on the wall
advertising the performance. A gendarme, in full uniform, as if he
had come out after playing _Sergeant Lupy_ in _Robert Macaire_, is
pensively airing himself under the _façade_, but there is no one else
within sight,--no one; not a _cocher_ with whom _Sergeant Lupy_ can
chat, nor even a _gamin_ to be ordered off; and though, from one point
of view, this exterior desolation may argue well for the business
the theatre is doing, yet, as there is no logical certainty that the
people, who do not appear outside a show, should therefore necessarily
be inside it, the temple of the Drama may, after all, be as empty as
was _Mr. Crummles_' Theatre, when somebody, looking through a hole in
the curtain, announced, in a state of great excitement, the advent of
another boy to the pit.
And now we rattle over the stones joltingly, along a fairly
well-lighted street. All the shops fast asleep, with their eyelids
closed, that is, their shutters up, all except one establishment,
garishly lighted and of defiantly rakish, appearance, with the words
_Café Chantant_ written up in jets of gas; and within this _Café_, as
we jolt along, I espy a _dame du comptoir_, a weary waiter, and two
or three second-class, flashy-looking customers, drinking, smoking,
perhaps arguing, at all events, gesticulating, which, with the
low-class Frenchmen, comes to much the same thing in the end, the end
probably being their expulsion from the drinking-saloon. Where is
the _chantant_ portion of the _café_? I cannot see,--perhaps in some
inner recess. With this flash of brilliancy, all sign of life in
Reims disappears. We drive on, jolted and rattled over the cobble
stones--(if not cobble, what are they? Wobble?)--and so up to the
_Lion d'Or_.
[Illustration]
I am depressed. I can't help it. It _is_ depressing to be the only
prisoners in a black van; I should have said "passengers," but the
sombre character of the omnibus suggests "Black Maria;" it _is_
depressing (I repeat to myself), to be the only two passengers
driving through a dead town at night-time, as if we were the very
personification of "the dead of night" being taken out in a hearse to
the nearest cemetery. Even DAUBINET feels it, for he is silent, except
when he tries to rouse himself by exclaiming "Caramba!" Only twice
does he make the attempt, and then, meeting with no response from
me, he collapses. Nor does it relieve depression to be set down in a
solemn courtyard, lighted by a solitary gas-lamp. This in itself would
be quite sufficient to make a weary traveller melancholy, without the
tolling of a gruesome bell to announce our arrival. This dispiriting
sound seems to affect nobody in the house, except a lengthy young
man in a desperate state of unwakefulness, who sleepily resents our
arrival in the midst of his first slumber (he must have gone to bed at
nine), and drowsily expresses a wish to be informed (for he will not
take the trouble to examine into the matter for himself) whether we
have any luggage; and this sense of depression becomes aggravated and
intensified when no genial Boniface (as the landlord used invariably
to be styled in romances of half a century ago) comes forth to greet
us with a hearty welcome, and no buxom smiling hostess, is there to
order the trim waiting-maid, with polished candlestick, "to show
the gentleman his room." And, at length, when a hostess, amiable but
shivering, does appear, there is still an absence of all geniality;
no questions are asked as to what we might like to take in the way
of refreshment, there is no fire to cheer us, no warm drinks are
suggested, no apparent probability of getting food or liquor, even if
we wanted it, which, thank Heaven, we don't, not having recovered from
the last hurriedly-swallowed meal at the railway buffet _en route_.
Yes, at the "Lion d'Or" at Reims, on this occasion, _hic et nunc_, is
a combination of melancholy circumstances which would have delighted
_Mark Tapley_, and, as far as I know, _Mark Tapley_ only.
"On an occasion like this," I murmur to myself, having no one else to
whom I can murmur it confidentially,--for DAUBINET, having a knowledge
of the house, has disappeared down some mysterious passage in order to
examine and choose our rooms,--"there is, indeed, some merit in being
jolly."
DAUBINET returns. He has found the rooms. The somnolent boots will
carry our things upstairs. Which of the two rooms will I have? They
are _en suite_. I make no choice. It is, I protest, a matter of
perfect indifference to me; but one room being infinitely superior
to the other, I select it, apologetically. DAUBINET, being more of a
_Mark Tapley_ than I am, is quite satisfied with the arrangement, and
has almost entirely recovered his wonted high spirits.
[Illustration]
"Very good. _Très bien!_ Da! Petzikoff! Pedadjoi! I shall sleep like
a top. _Bon soir! Buono notte! Karascho!_ Blass the Prince of WAILES!"
and he has disappeared into his bedroom. I never knew a man so quick
in unpacking, getting into bed, and going to sleep. He hasn't far
to go, or else Morpheus must have caught him up, _en route_, and
hypnotised him. I hear him singing and humming for two minutes; I hear
him calling out to me, "All right? Are you all right?" and, once again
invoking the spirit of _Mark Tapley_, I throw all the joviality I
can into my reply as I say, through the wall, "Quite, thanks. Jolly!
Good-night!" But my reply is wasted on him; he has turned a deaf ear
to me, the other being on the pillow, and gives no sign. If he is
asleep, the suddenness of the collapse is almost alarming. Once again
I address him. No answer. I continue my unpacking. All my portmanteau
arrangements seem to have become unaccountably complicated. I pause
and look round. Cheerless. The room is bare and lofty, the bed is
small, the window is large, and the one solitary _bougie_ sheds
a gloom around which makes unpacking a difficulty. I pull up the
blind. A lovely moonlight night. In front of me, as if it had had the
politeness to put itself out of the way to walk up here, and pay me a
visit, stands the Cathedral, that is--some of it; but what I can see
of it, _au clair de la lune_, fascinates me. It is company, it is
friendly. But it is chilly all the same, and the sooner I close the
window and retire the better. Usual difficulty, of course, in closing
French window. After a violent struggle, it is done. The bed looks
chilly, and I feel sure that that stuffed, pillow-like thing, which is
to do duty for blanket and coverlet, can't be warm enough.
Hark! a gentle snore. A very gentle one. It is the first time I ever
knew a snore exercise a soothing effect on the listener. This is
decidedly soporific. It is an invitation to sleep. I accept. The
Cathedral clock sounds a _carillon_. It plays half a tune, too, as if
this was all it had learnt up to the present, or perhaps to intimate
that there is more where that comes from, only I must wait for
to-morrow, and be contented with this instalment. I am. Half a tune is
better than no tune at all, or _vice versâ_: it doesn't matter. When
the tune breaks off I murmur to myself, "To be continued in our next;"
and so--as I believe, for I remember nothing after this--I doze off to
sleep on this my first night in the ancient town of Reims.
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